A Moment's Surrender
by burninganchors
Summary: Sherlock tours worldwide with the English National Ballet. John dances the Lindy Hop competitively all across the globe. That they would meet, then, by the slimmest of chances in one lonely city, is pure coincidence. The whole 'dancing together' bit is a little more planned. Dancer!AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Moment's Surrender  
**Rating:** M  
**Warnings:** Non-dancer attempting to describe dance moves, more fluff than your standard marshmallow.  
**Additional Notes:** Kelley (_anotherwellkeptsecret_ on tumblr) drew some gorgeous art of Sherlock and John dancing, I shyly I asked if I could maybe do a little dancer!AU ficlet for it, and 50,000 words later it is no longer little but still very much the dancer!AU that stole my heart. Look out for a list of terms and definitions at the end of each chapter in case those get confusing! There will be additional links on my page to both Kelley's art and some really great dance resource sites where you can view the types of moves mentioned in the fic. Title is from "What the Thunder Said," part of "The Waste Land" by T. S. Eliot.  
**Dedications:** Many thanks to Kelley for that original idea and allowing me to play on her stage; many thanks to both Alyssas (_formankind, howtotrainyourairbison_) for helping this non-dancer find her verbal feet when the terminology threatened to take us all down. And - as always - many, many thanks to Hannah (_everybodykeepcalm_) for choreographing this into something presentable. With her help, and with my running out of dance metaphors, I think we're finally performance ready. Enjoy!

* * *

_"_Datta_: what have we given?  
My friend, blood shaking my heart _  
_The awful daring of a moment's surrender _  
_Which an age of prudence can never retract _  
_By this, and this only, we have existed..."_

- _What The Thunder Said,_ T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land"

* * *

He flexed his toes. Did a _plié_.

Breathed.

The thin ray of stage lighting that sliced through the gap in the curtains was blinding. Blinking against it, he could see the place where thousands of people would be seated in the audience, in the rows upon rows of chairs fluting back toward the high-perched end of the auditorium.

He allowed himself just a moment to imagine it, to wade deep in the thought that had shadowed every step, every _jeté_ and _bourrée_, leading to now:

_All those people, waiting for him._

"You okay?" A warm hand at the small of his back, its impressions burning across his skin.

_John._

Sherlock turned and there he was, costumed and relaxed, his face smudged with swathes of dark make-up. But the lines of concern beneath them were unmistakable. There was nothing, nothing to set John apart from every day of the last six weeks they'd spent training together - but here John was before him, with him, and he looked absolutely radiant. Without his consent, the thought promptly amended itself:

All those people, waiting for _them._

Sherlock smiled. With it, the last of the remaining tension uncurled from his spine, unraveling with the pressure of John's palm at its base. He straightened.

"Yes," he murmured, and for now it was true, and with sudden desperation he leaned forward to press his lips against John's forehead. _Yes_, he said, in understanding of all John had been trying to say for so long. He felt the traveling ghost of warmth as John's other hand came up to clasp the back of Sherlock's neck, as John leaned into his touch, as John breathed quietly against his throat.

He wanted, he realized, to inhabit this moment for as long as time would allow. For longer. Often Sherlock had said the same about any number of his solo performances, but this -

His arms came up to squeeze John tightly against his chest. Abruptly, he ached at the thought of being called on to perform. Of having at last to say goodbye.

When he stepped back several minutes later, something had changed. The fear and nerves that had been so unlike him and yet plagued him these past days were completely gone, replaced instead with confidence. But not his usual confidence, in its lazy and careless arrogance. No, this was a different feeling entirely.

Sherlock knew what was to come. But for now, there was this.

His eyes met John's again, seeking a final confirmation - and there it was. Indigo-dark, honest, assured; this was a complete and abandoned faith in his partner, and in what they were going to do together.

John didn't have to ask. He just held out his hand. Sherlock took it, and together, they waited for their moment.

The judges dismissing the last performers. The shuffling of paper, scratching of pens.

Silence.

The rise of the curtain. A sea of a thousand empty chairs and spotlights in his eyes. Tonight, some five or so people out there in that great impenetrable dark who would determine the fate of the rest of his life.

John's hand in his.

With one last squeeze, they stepped into the light.

* * *

_**plié** - a movement in which a dancer smoothly and continuously bends the knees and straightens them again  
__**jeté** - a jump from one foot to the other similar to a leap, in which one leg appears to be "thrown" in the direction of the movement  
__**bourrée** - quick, even movements often done on pointe to give the look of gliding_  



	2. Chapter 2

_Thursday, October 29th_

_(Three Months Earlier)_

* * *

"John, I was just -! Oh, John, you didn't..." Clara began as John walked into the hospital room, brandishing the largest bouquet of flowers the shops had had to offer. "They're lovely, but you really didn't have to, I - "

John snorted. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, already arranging them on her small bedside table. "How about the next time I'm laid out with the kind of injury totals you've racked up, you can get me an even bigger one, hmm?"

Clara had her blushing face hidden in her hands. She peeked out ruefully from between her fingers. "Hopefully none too soon, my dear. Hurts like a fucking bitch, it does."

Shattered pelvis, torn achilles tendon, more breaks and fractures than could be numbered, they'd said... Christ, he wasn't surprised. "I'm sorry I haven't been here earlier," he said gently, to push those thoughts away.

"Oh, pfft." She gave a wave of her hands. "It's the first time I'm coherent enough - on painkillers, mind you - to hold a halfway decent conversation. The next time you see Bill, you should ask him what he and I talked about, because I have no idea."

John chuckled, relieved to find that the fall hadn't broken her good humor as well. A world without Clara's smiles was - well, there was a reason they won all their competitions, and it wasn't his good looks.

Pulling up a stool to the bedside, he urged her instead to relate the story behind her injuries.

"I heard about the accident," he started, settling down, "but of course at this point the gossips have you, what, slaying a bear on an out-of-control train in a mudslide and whatever else."

"God, I hope so," she said with a laugh of her own, "Much more exciting that way."

His forehead creased. "What did happen, though?"

Sighing, she detailed everything leading up to her landing in the hospital, and John nodded along, watching the graceful gestures of her hands, scabbed and bandaged as they were. Clara'd been camping with some of her office colleagues, hiking and only occasionally scaling some of the smaller peaks on her trip. It was _supposed_ to have been fun. Team-building, that sort of thing. But the both of them knew all too well what a simple misstep, a single slip, could do, whether you were on the stage or in the mountains.

As John listened, though, he couldn't help but take in her various bruises and scrapes with a grim eye. It'd been a long time since he'd forsaken his dreams of med school to pursue the far more fickle, flirty dream of dance, but it didn't take much training to see that Clara's road to recovery would be a long one - and a painful one, too.

"John?" a voice prodded, and he looked up to see Clara gazing at him with a boundless gentleness. Her mouth softened. "I'm not dead, but with a look like that I might as well be." She bit her lip, the sweet flutter of her eyelashes casting dark shadows on already wan cheeks. "I probably know what you're thinking about."

He winced slightly, and with all the sympathy he could muster, asked, "What's recovery look like for you?"

She shot him another twisted smile. "At least you didn't ask if I was_ going _to recover."

He shook his head, reaching out for her hand. "No one could stop you."

She squeezed his fingers tight. For a long while, she said nothing. And then, "They say..." Clara stopped, gave a snort, and tried again. "Dancers are made of sturdy stuff, you know that more than anyone. But it's going to be a long time, if I'm - if I ever get back to it." She turned her eyes up to him, fixing him with that sorrowful clear blue. "I certainly can't compete anytime soon."

John was already shaking his head. "No, no, don't -"

"I know what you're going to say, but it _does_ affect you, John." She shook her head right back at him, limp blonde bob skewed about her face. "Money was tight before the last Strictly, and I know you were counting on this one..."

"Please don't blame -"

"I don't blame myself, it was an accident," she said firmly, sitting up a little straighter with a grimace. "We both know how that works. But it's rubbish luck for you, even if it is more rubbish luck for me. You can't deny that."

John found more resilience in her eyes than he could bear to look at, and tore his eyes away to look at his bouquet. Soft pinpricks of blue and ocher did wonders against the drab white walls, but it wasn't nearly enough. God, he needed more flowers. He was absolutely going to flood her room with flowers. "You are entirely too selfless for your own good, you know that?" he said, and kissed her hand.

Another huff of air came from farther up the bed. "If you ever meet Fate, tell him I really didn't deserve this then, alright?"

The smile that took to his face was wavery, but genuine. "You least of all."

She raised her eyebrows and grinned back. "Then you'll be singing my praises when you hear about the offer I've got for you."

He must've looked skeptical, because she sighed and pulled her hand away to cross her arms. "Don't worry, it helps us both," she sniffed, somewhat defensive.

"I just wonder if you've spent more time recovering or plotting."

"You know me," she said sweetly, "I'm not happy unless I'm scheming. And I've already got a doctor, thank you very much."

John leaned back, hands up in faux surrender. "Alright, then, I get the point. What's going on up in your funny head?"

Absently, Clara reached over to stroke the long, golden petal of a daffodil, silent as something worked itself out behind her eyes. "Could be the PCA, but if I'm remembering correctly - you used to train ballet, yeah?" she said slowly, glancing over to him at last.

His eyes widened. It had been ages since John had even thought about ballet. "Yeah," he said eventually. "I moved on to swing, er, towards the end of university, I think? Before that, pretty much all I did in my free time was study ballet. No guarantee on whether I was good or not."

"But you did study it."

"Yes..." Now his eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head to look at her properly. "What are you getting at?"

Her hand dropped back to the bed. "I teach a class, part-time, in between all the office stuff - beginner's ballet. Or, obviously," she said with another grimace, and John didn't miss her gripping the small monitor for more pain meds, "taught a class. Funnily enough, it began as a favor for a friend looking to start up her own little studio gig. That doesn't mean much now if I can't teach, but if I recommend someone who _can_…" Her eyebrows arched, expectant.

"Oh." John nodded, then stopped. "Oh, god. You mean me?"

"Who else? And think about it, John: you need the money, I need an easy out. It's perfect, and there's no one I'd trust more."

"But I haven't done ballet in... god, that's nearly ten years, you realize?" he protested. But with a sinking feeling he noted the gleam in her pale eyes that meant Clara was about to get her way.

He'd have to be firm if he was to resist this. But as he opened his mouth to do just that, Clara rolled her eyes.

"It's not the fucking Royal Ballet. Do some stretches, a couple positions at the barre, that sort of thing. The parents basically want you to look after their kids while they're working through a phase. Come on," she wheedled. "You have to acknowledge that it's tempting."

If John were honest with himself, he did rather desperately need the money. Going from competition to competition had been risky enough as it was - Lindy purses weren't exactly spectacular. But because he and Clara were good, he'd lulled himself into complacency. And now here he was, his partner laid out for months, potentially years, with no way of fending for himself. Clara had danced for the fun of it; John danced to survive.

He could try searching for a new partner, but it wasn't easy to find someone who knew him as well as Clara did, either; Clara, who danced so freely and was so in tune with John whenever they stepped out onto the floor. Dancing with her was like... breathing. Easy. Natural.

And as much as John hated to admit it, he wasn't sure he wanted to try looking for a new partner. The kids flooding their ranks just made him feel old, these days. Sorting through people who had talent and people just wanting to brush John's could be draining.

More than that, it was the Invitationals that were looming. If John had to bow out on that - which the both of them most certainly did, now - they'd lose so much of their prominence, it'd be like starting back at square one. The pull of disappointment was thick in his gut, but he tried to push it away under a thick wave of guilt - at least he wasn't the one unable to even walk.

Regardless, when he looked back up at Clara's expectant face, he was resigned to what he had to do. "What about you?" he asked instead, under the lingering hands of guilt.

She settled back into her hospital bed like it was the most luxurious of king-size accoutrements. "Perks of getting injured on a company trip is that they'll pay for everything, and I even get to telework. Might even get a raise out of all this."

John smirked. "Lucky you." His shoulders dropped, and with a last, heaving sigh, he surrendered. "Alright, what would I need to do?"

* * *

_Wednesday, November 25th_

* * *

As soon as the curtain closed to signal the end of rehearsal, Sherlock was tearing off the idiotic mask and storming backstage, his gaze locking in on a familiar dark head and narrowing even further.

"What the hell were you doing?" he hissed, jerking Anderson around to face him.

"Excuse me?" he replied, his simpering voice dripping a smug sarcasm that heated Sherlock's blood to boiling.

"We talked about the lighting. How am I supposed to dance if I can't bloody see, or are you too much of a -"

"Sherlock!" At the sharp cry, Sherlock whirled, and there was Greg Lestrade, his arms crossed and a worn expression sitting tired on his face.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and straightened, contempt still ugly on his face as he muttered, "We're not finished," and stalked off to follow his instructor.

The whispers behind them faded the closer they got to the dressing rooms. When they were entirely gone from his hearing, Sherlock couldn't help but growl, "He should be fired on the spot. I could have been _killed_."

"Isn't that what practice is for?"

"Oh, good, so there can be witnesses when he actually manages to kill me properly."

"A ballet is no place for incompetence," Lestrade agreed smoothly, nodding along. Sherlock shot him another of his narrow-eyed looks. Lestrade sighed. "Oh, come off it, Sherlock, stop being so melodramatic."

Sherlock had to snort at that. "I'm a danseur, melodramatic is what we do." He stepped back as Lestrade opened the door to the dressing room, gratified to find the others were mysteriously absent. Probably still chattering about on the stage. And if it happened to be because they wanted to avoid him, well, he couldn't complain.

He settled into one of the many empty vanities, peering into the dusty mirror. His makeup had suffered the usual long streaks of sweat, his naturally pale skin peeking through, while his curls were frizzing about his face in attempted escape from their tightly gelled confines. His lip curled in disgust, and he reached for one of the tough bottles of remover with thankful hands. God, what a horrific performance.

Massaging moisturizer into his hands, he tuned back in to what Lestrade was saying. "...and if it wasn't an accident, well, then, a bit of jibing never hurt anyone."

"It's unprofessional."

"Since when have you cared about professionalism?" Lestrade shot back, and then sighed, the fight almost visibly leaving him as his hands came up to massage his temples. Sherlock frowned, pausing in clearing his face to watch Lestrade pull himself back together. "I'm sorry, just..." Lestrade shifted awkwardly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes further. "You're already on thin ice, and, well…" He was clearly working himself up to something, avoiding Sherlock's gaze while his arms crossed and uncrossed themselves, crossed and uncrossed.

Sherlock sat back, the realization striking him hard. "Victor fell through, didn't he."

Lestrade's silence was enough of an answer, even if it hadn't needed to be a question. Sherlock tossed the flannel back on the counter. "What was his excuse?" he asked, a little more bite to the words than he'd intended.

"Does it even matter?" he answered wearily. He strode over to put his hands on the back of Sherlock's chair, meeting his eyes in the mirror with a helpless shrug. "At this rate, no one in or out of company will partner you."

"They're not good enough anyway," Sherlock said with a sniff.

"Despite your damn near impossibly high standards," his trainer replied with characteristic, gentle honesty, "Victor would have been good enough, but your reputation is scaring everyone off - good or bad. The audition is in six weeks, Sherlock. Six weeks." His bloodshot eyes were dark-rimmed when he looked up and sighed. "What in God's bloody name is your plan, because I sure as hell don't have one."

Sherlock tapped his fingers against his chin. In all honesty, he hadn't thought Victor... would refuse. They'd danced together in university and Victor had sung his praises time and again, that the loveliest _pas de deux_ he'd ever danced was his class audition with Sherlock. But then, that was before. Well.

He focused his thoughts somewhat viciously to the task at hand: an _invitation_ to audition, in six weeks' time, with the _Ballet de l'Opéra de Paris._ To _star_ with the Paris Opera Ballet. God, a chance to get out of this place and finally be recognized - he could almost taste it, sweet as the salty tang of sweat after a performance where he'd spent himself for his art. This was his moment.

But if no one would partner him for the audition, that would be something of a moot point.

"Have you talked to Mike yet?" Lestrade hesitated, and Sherlock saw his chance. "He's got to know someone, all those contacts. Talk to him, talk to him right now."

"Sherlock, I can't just -" he looked at his watch, turning it out to face Sherlock. "Have you seen the time?"

"Considering you just showed me, yes." By now he was more than immune to the look of exasperation Lestrade threw at him. "If we find someone tonight, we can get them tomorrow, and then finally begin. You said it yourself, we're running out of time, and don't pretend this doesn't affect your career as much as it affects mine."

For a long moment, Lestrade just stared at him. Then he hung his head, the picture of defeat, and Sherlock smiled in satisfaction.

"But you'll have to pick up Beth."

A frown shoved the smile off his face. "What?"

His instructor was already making his way toward the door, a lazy swagger to his step as he tossed a look at his student over his shoulder. Sherlock almost - _almost_ - admired his ability to nail the combination of 'exhausted' and 'smug' so effectively.

"I'll do your sodding dirty work, but Beth's practice ends in half an hour. Take her back to your flat and I'll meet you there once I have something to discuss."

"She hates me," Sherlock groaned, throwing an arm up to his face. He heard a long huff of air behind him.

"She's obsessed with you, you git, it's why I couldn't keep her away from this stupid ballet business in the first place."

Sherlock, playing moodily with one of the tassels on that utterly ridiculous mask, paused. "What, it doesn't run in the family?"

"I'll text you the details," Lestrade said with a wave of his phone instead, before sauntering back out of the dressing room, not even bothering to close the door - a move Sherlock felt was calculated on his part and unnecessarily cruel.

He slipped out of his flats and padded over to the open doorway, closing it pointedly before leaning back against the firm press of the wood. He could practically feel the cooling of his muscles, the steam of their unwinding, as he allowed himself a second to relax. A private peace. Once, a long time ago, it seemed, he'd felt that way on stage.

In the mirror, his pale face stared back expressionlessly until Sherlock finally looked away.

His phone buzzed as Sherlock was packing up the last of his things. The address in hand, he twined his scarf about his neck and set out to play chauffeur and babysitter. Hopefully Lestrade would come back with good news by the end of the night, and this would all be worth it.

He wanted nothing more than this. The pursuit of perfection, the devastating beauty of ballet - it had called to Sherlock from the lanky leaps of his youth and beckoned him into its graceful futures. He'd never once refused the call. Unless one counted that bit where he'd turned down The Royal Opera, but that was different. Besides, the National English Ballet had quickly followed. But he'd stagnated there, too, and for far too long.

But now... oh, _now_. _Étoile_ with the Paris Opera. Dancing as the finest of the world. Fiercely, Sherlock knew, he could not allow this to slip away.

He came back to himself with a start, shaking his head. With a last glance around the empty room, he shut off the lights, and with his duffel bag over his shoulder walked out of the ballet house, his spindly, dark figure enveloped into the frozen arms of wintry evening.

* * *

Sitting cross-legged on the floor with his students, prepared for some of the nice, cool-down chatting he'd made a staple of their few lessons together, John Watson found himself very unprepared for all this.

He furrowed his eyebrows, and some of the girls giggled. "You want me to do... what?"

"Show us a _pirouette_!" prodded Rachel, sitting up straighter in her magenta-pink leotard. The other eleven and twelve-year olds nodded along in varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"I think it's a little advanced for you all just yet, sorry," he tried as gently as possible, but another of his students shook his head impatiently, dark eyes exasperated at John's silliness.

"No, she means _you_ do it."

John coughed, tugging at the neckline of his t-shirt. "Why me?"

They giggled as one, a rather scary move he was just getting used to, four classes in. "You're the teacher! Shows us the cool stuff, or don't you know how?" said Beth Lestrade, crossing her arms.

"Now, give us a minute," John retorted, sliding to his knees. "If it's _pirouettes_ you want, it's _pirouettes_ you'll get." He tried not to look too pleased at the collective cheer, and tried equally hard to ignore the curious glances of the mothers and fathers keeping a close eye from the viewing glasses.

He'd taught four times in total since Clara's offer two weeks ago, and though there was the initial unease that came at missing 'Miss Clara' and being taught by an old man instead, the kids had warmed up to him rather more quickly than he'd anticipated - not that he was complaining.

More than that, John found himself relaxing into ballet as well, and even more than that, _enjoying_ himself. As he taught them the basics of _pliés_ and _port de bras_, positions of arms and feet and the carriage of spines, his anatomy lessons came flooding back, mixed inextricably with the ways he'd been taught. Swing made him loose, free - but ballet brought back a poise and rigidity that left him feeling strong.

He'd forgotten how much he'd missed this.

Moving into position, he relaxed, releasing a breath and letting his shoulders fall into their old, easy alignment.

He extended his arms, a healthy second position. His right leg pointed out at a slender angle. Another breath. The right leg rotated back as the arms moved in, and...

"Stop."

If John hadn't worked so much on his balance back in the day, he definitely would have fallen over in surprise at the deep, unexpected baritone ordering him into stillness. John's eyes leapt over to the door, where a man was standing, coat askew and duffel bag hanging heavy at his side. He glanced nervously at his students; god, he hadn't even heard the man come in, and none of the parents had even...

"Who are you?" he asked carefully, moving to a more protective stance and keeping a determined eye on the bag.

He didn't miss the flicker of amusement in the man's cool gaze. "Sherlock Holmes." John flicked quickly back through his memory, trying to remember if any of his kids had that last name. From the excited whispering behind him, they certainly seemed to know who he was, but none of them were being very forthcoming.

"How can I help you, Mr. Holmes?" he asked instead, consciously maintaining the warning in his tone but allowing himself to relax just slightly. There didn't seem to be any threat, not with the way he was standing, anyway, but one could never be too careful. "Class doesn't end for another two minutes."

"Oh, I know," said Mr. Holmes, laying his duffle bag down - as John was pleased to note - very, very carefully. And then - as John was now surprised to note - he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the barre. "But I came in a bit early because I think, actually, it's you who needs my help."

At this point, surprise didn't begin to cover it. John arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

Completely missing the challenge, Mr. Holmes nodded with an emphatic "Yes," and came over to John, almost uncomfortably close. John held his ground, but swallowed, eyelids flitting down.

The man rolled his eyes and, if anything, stepped closer. "Arms out," he instructed.

"What are you doing?" John asked quietly, an aside from the watchful eyes of his students - and, hopefully, their parents.

"Helping," he repeated, sounding terse, but nonetheless dropping to mimic John's tone. "Your positioning is obscene."

John stopped himself from gaping at the offense. "Excuse me, but I haven't -"

Mr. Holmes ignored everything John was saying in favor of grasping his arms and forcibly pulling them into the second. He rotated his wrists, his elbows, curving his arms to something more free than what John had been doing before. He was about to protest when... Oh, that was. That was interesting.

That _voice_ made a curious hum in his ear, left hand stroking back up John's arm to push between his shoulder-blades. Automatically, John straightened. The man circled, now tapping at John's leg. John repeated the extended pose of before, but Mr. Holmes made a tsk'ing noise and pushed it wider. "Now back," he said, and this time, John followed smoothly.

Mr. Holmes stepped away, but John hardly noticed, coiled as he was, readied for what had been asked of him. "And..." The breath was interminable, the simple word to follow enough to push him over the edge. "...Release."

And John was in motion. Smoothly, easily, he propelled himself into the next move, his foot arching high over the even spread of his weight, as his other leg came in tight for the spin. He fixed his eyes on the wall and turned, turned, turned; turned until he felt the spring winding down and allowed himself to unfurl back into the new, stretched position, his arms fanning graceful and strong as he came, at last, to a stop. One leg firmly on the ground, the other balanced behind him, John stopped.

He looked up, just as Mr. Holmes did the same. "Kids," he said evenly, not breaking the stranger's gaze, "you did a wonderful job today. Dismissed." Boys and girls alike released a collective breath and scattered backwards, some of them giving John a smattering of applause, others staying stock-still and wide-eyed.

Realizing, belatedly, that he was still holding the position, John allowed his arms to fall and pulled himself to a proper stand. Then he stuck out his hand. "John Watson, and yes, this time I give you permission to touch, Mr. Holmes."

His eyes did the odd, flickery thing again, this time with just a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, and then he took John's hand in his own. "Sherlock, please. And you needed the assistance."

"Mmm, perhaps not in front of my class."

"Please," Sherlock said, stepping back with a snort. He turned, John moving to follow as he spoke. "They expect everyone to want pointers from me."

"Yeah, sorry, I was wondering - are you... one of the kids'...?" Helplessly uncertain of how to phrase it, he looked to Sherlock, who took a moment to realize what he was saying.

"What? Oh, no, god, no. Beth Lestrade's father asked me to pick her up. She can confirm I am who I say I am and some other such nonsense." It was then Sherlock stopped, in the middle of retrieving his coat. "You really have no idea who I am, do you?"

"Not in the slightest," John agreed. He looked around, looked back to Sherlock. "Should I?"

Rather than the smirks of before, John saw the beginnings of a strange delight on that face, a surprised chuckle huffing its way from Sherlock's lips. He surprised _himself _in smiling back - a little tentative, yes, but there was something in the glitter of those sharp eyes that was impossible not to return.

Interrupting their silence came the clearing of a small throat, and the both of them looked down to find Beth, looking expectant with her thin eyebrows raised.

"Hello, Beth," John said, when neither of them showed any signs of speaking first. "Good lesson today."

She nodded, still quiet, and John looked to Sherlock for help. Beth usually wasn't anything like this. It was all this stranger, this Sherlock's, fault, he reasoned. Whoever he was, he'd flabbergasted the sense out of them all - John himself probably very much included, he thought wryly. Some back portion of his brain started clicking to work. He hadn't seen him in any films recently, he didn't think, and John did a lot of telly. But still someone famous, perhaps?

"Oh, right." Sherlock said, sounding halfway to bored as his voice cut through John's wonderings. "What did you eat for breakfast this morning?"

"The kettle was dirty so we had no tea. And yourself?" Beth replied, startling the hell out of John.

"Caviar, of course." And then Beth relaxed, allowing the big, honest grin that sat upon her face for so much of class to return. John looked between the two of them, utterly at a loss, before it clicked, just as Sherlock shot him a quick look and said, "Part of her father's…agreement. She verifies I'm not here to kidnap her -"

"And he checks I haven't been possessed by aliens or something," she laughed. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, Beth," he returned easily. "Let's go." With not so much as a goodbye, he began to move for the door.

"Wait!" she called. With a huff, he turned back, and John found himself looking between them with that same uncertainty. "Wait, let me get my coat back from the closet." She pushed her bag into Sherlock's arms and, ignoring his grimace, skipped off to the cloakroom.

Staring after her, John remarked slowly, "'Aliens?'"

Sherlock sighed as if existence was particularly troublesome in that moment. "Lestrade says one can never be too careful. You should see him with her, it's rather sickening."

"Well, I think it's rather sweet. Codes and everything." Hoping to learn a bit more in the final seconds he had with this man, this Sherlock - especially on a second chance - he cleared his throat and said, "Sweet of you, too, to look after her like this."

Sherlock waved an impatient hand. "Her father and I have an arrangement." At John's lingering look, he relented. "He's my instructor, handles my performances. Sometimes it keeps him late."

Ah. A dancer, then. As John had expected, what with the critiques to his form. Speaking of which... "Thank you, by the way. Poor timing, but, um. The help with the technique, it was definitely. Appreciated." He kept getting sidetracked by the unreadability of those battleship eyes, dammit. He tried again, just a simple, "Thank you."

Sherlock looked about to say something, bollocks if John could tell, but either way the chance was lost when Beth came sprinting back.

"Did it get lost in the back of the closet?"

"What, like Narnia?" At Sherlock's blank look, she shook her head, taking back her pack and slipping it over her coat. "Nevermind, let's go. Thank you again, Mr. John. See you next class!"

"Don't forget to practice those positions," he reminded, and then turned his eyes up to Sherlock. Well. It'd been something interesting, at least. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Goodnight, Mr. Watson." And then Beth took his hand, and they began to leave. But just as they hit the door, Sherlock whirled back around. John, guilty to be caught looking, stared quickly down to the polished wood floor, but Sherlock's next words made his head shoot back up.

"Your form was already good. A little work on that shoulder, and, well. I'd like to see you at your best."

And in the blink of an eye, Sherlock had disappeared, the door swinging on hollow, creaking hinges in his wake. John had no idea how long he stared after that tall, elegant form, only that eventually his remaining students started to giggle.

"Oi, you," he said, regaining his composure. "No giggling in my ballet school." He made one of his faces again and they splintered into high-pitched squeals of laughter, asking for more. John was happy to pass the time waiting for their parents to pick them up in this way, but all the while, his mind was far away, chasing after the charming man in the dangerous coat.

And wondering how it had been the most exciting thing to happen to him in the world of dance in the whole of his career.

Wondering, as he couldn't deny - how long it would be until he saw Sherlock Holmes again.

* * *

As soon as Sherlock had paid the driver and given him the address to his flat in Montague Street, he settled back and prepared to stare out over London as it passed. But he found, more than usual, his mind could not stop in its frenzied racings, and this time something beyond excitement stirred in every atom of his nerve-endings. Something sparking and deep, something quick and forceful as a train run off the tracks. The exhaustion of the performance and the stress of the looming audition were background noise in the presence of this, thrust so delightfully, joyously into the foreground: _an idea_.

And John Watson figured at its center.

"John - Mr. John isn't your regular teacher, is he?" Sherlock asked, looking over at Beth in the seat beside him. She shook her dark head.

"Miss Clara had an accident, and he had to take over. But he's nice." She shrugged. "Knows a lot."

Debateable, but at the same time, the potential simmering there was almost too much to bear. Something _new_. Hie hands curled into fists on his lap. "How many times a week do you have class, Beth?"

"Wednesdays and Thursdays. Same time." She turned curious eyes up to him, lit odd and moon-bright by the passing streetlamps overhead. "Why?"

For a long while, Sherlock didn't answer, returning to gaze out over the inky depths of the Thames. And then he replied, "Why not?"

Because exactly that: _why not?_ It was everything they would object to in their prima donna ways, in their dreadful traditions. It was every risk, placing it on the shoulders of a man who couldn't even properly align his own. But the glint of something more, some implacable flint in those dark eyes, the suggestion of a poise and precision unrivaled in so unassuming a figure - yes, _yes_. Why not?

Beth just rolled her eyes and returned to staring out her own window, familiar enough by now with Sherlock's moods to just sit back and allow this one to pass. They spent the rest of the ride home in silence, gazing out upon the city night.

* * *

_**Strictly** - one of the many categories of swing dance often performed at competitions, the Strictly allows couples to compete together through various levels to randomly selected music with no prechoreographed steps allowed. _  
_**Lindy Hop** - one form of the jazz branch of swing dance, originating in America but finding a broad fanbase all across the globe_  
_**Étoile **- the highest rank of a dancer at the Paris Opera Ballet_  
_**pirouette** - a full, controlled turn on the front of one foot_  
_**port de bras** - carriage of the arms; often it is used as a warm-up for traveling between the various positions  
**The Royal Ballet, The English National Ballet, The Paris Opera Ballet** - premiere dance companies in Europe_


	3. Chapter 3

_Wednesday, December 9th_

* * *

"I think I'm going mad," John said, his head falling to the table with a groan as soon as he walked in after class.

John could almost hear Bill rolling his eyes, noise of the club be damned. "Is this about Holmes again?" Taking John's silence for confirmation, he whistled low. Sally nudged him, then signaled for more drinks.

Bill tapped John's elbow, waiting to speak until he'd lifted his eyes. "You could always get a restraining order." John just snorted.

"He hasn't threatened me, or, or anything. He just..."

"Keeps showing up to all your classes, never says a word before swanning off, looks intimidating in a big coat?" Bill cut in dryly.

"He sounds like a right creepy bastard," Sally agreed, and gave a little shudder. "I used to have a boyfriend, works the electrics and such, we still keep in touch. And he tells me all these horror stories about him."

"Oh?" John inquired, suspended in the terrible place between intrigue and self-preservation, just before he took a running leap over the cliff. He sat up straighter. "What've you heard, then?" John's googling had taken him to pages and pages detailing Sherlock's rise to fame in the English National - which explained the kids in his class mooning over the man every time he showed up, _very irritating_ - but there'd been an equal number claiming him something of a terror.

"He's good, real good. But he hasn't made any friends in the business," she said, "mostly because he's arrogant and rude ten ways from Sunday. Not a good way to move up the ranks, if you can't play well with others. I heard he even turned down the Royal Ballet because they apparently weren't good enough for him."

"No bloody way," said Bill, but she just nodded.

"That much of a charmer, eh?" John chuckled into his drink. Somehow, it didn't fit with what he'd seen. Holmes - Sherlock, he amended - had been a bit... intense in his focus, certainly, when he was adjusting John's form. A little eccentric in how he went about it, and more than pushy in the beginning. But as John listened to Sally's words, the thoughts of those lips quirking that strange smile or those eyes locked bright and fierce upon John's body in motion just wouldn't reconcile themselves.

She could very well be right. The internet articles could all be right. All this evidence against him, but again - something just didn't fit with the freak Sally was fleshing out.

Sally shrugged, looking over to Bill. "What do you think?"

But Bill was frowning, his eyes unfocused where they rested on the dancers under the pulsating, smoky lights of the club. Sally and John exchanged a glance. "Bill," Sally sing-songed at last, laying a hand over his arm.

"What?" he blinked, jerking back into the present, and then, "Oh. Sorry, I was just thinking... you're gonna laugh, mate, but I might've got tickets to one of his performances this week."

John kept a very firm grip on his glass and took a very collected sip. "What?"

Sally was already laughing, slouching back in her seat and grinning like she couldn't keep it off her face if she tried. "You've got tickets to the ballet? To see the man who's been stalking John like some sort of nutter?"

"Well, it _is_ The Nutcracker."

John was beginning to wish he hadn't told them anything. But Sherlock dropping in and observing his classes for what had been almost two weeks straight, now, and _not even saying a bloody word to John about it _before he'd swoop off with Beth Lestrade, that great, unnecessary coat of his fanned out behind him - well, it wasn't the sort of thing to be weathered alone, strong-minded a man as he was.

Because there was the question no one had been able to answer yet, try as they might: _Why?_

Though he was laughing, Bill looked a bit as if he wished he hadn't said anything, either, going a bit yellow in the club's watery light. "Oh, come off it," he sighed at last. "It's Christmas, and lord knows it's not Christmas without a good Nutcracker. Besides, it's Julie who's got the tickets, not me."

"And some of us actually do like ballet," John reminded her. "Clara, me. Instructors, and all."

"Just don't forget you're a swinger at heart, John," Sally reminded him with a wink, and John had to laugh at that.

"Of course, how could I forget?"

But even he could sense the something-strained in his tone as he looked out at everyone moving in time to the easy jazz rhythms of the house, to the loud, desperate beats that seemed to shudder up his bloodstream. The Amber was one of their favorite haunts. So he supposed he should have expected it - that as he'd walked in that evening even haggard and off-balance as he was, almost all the heads had turned and begun their whispering. Every time John looked in another direction he had the sensation that they all were quickly looking away.

_Isn't it sad_, they would be saying._ Isn't it sad, the wind-up doll finally breaking down_.

John wasn't a swinger. He was barely a dancer, these days, and everyone knew it - and if he were being honest with himself it had started long before Clara was hurt.

Sally had her eye on the couple currently occupying the center of the dance floor. "You watching this?" she said, nodding at the two.

The tassels on the girl's dress flew left and right as they jumped, lifted, the cheers in the audience following her ascent. Her partner's strong arms levered her up and around his body, and the two of them didn't stop moving, their feet always kicking out strong and alive and perfectly in rhythm. They were smiling, laughing.

Bill turned away from John, the concern falling from his face, replaced with a quiet kind of admiration the longer he stared. "They're the new kids, yeah?"

She nodded. After a few minutes longer listening to the audience whoop above the jazzy brass of the music, she turned a mischievous eye back to Bill. "Want to come show them how the pros do it?" She gave a joking waggle of her eyebrows, and Bill snorted, already pulling himself up from the table with a muffled, "Hell yeah."

But he looked back quickly to John, and there was a quick fluttering of emotion across his face. Bill and Sally exchanged a look, and in that moment, John hated them. Which was unfair, and just made John hate himself, especially when Bill's eyes were still lingering on him with such concern.

"You wanna come watch, mate?" he asked. "Maybe a pretty girl will even give you a round."

But John only laughed again, this time feeling more like the sound had been kicked out of him. "No, I'll just - I'll keep us the table. Everyone's bound to want a drink after watching too much more of that."

With a final salute, Bill put his arm around Sally's waist, and the two of them ducked into the crowd. Moments later more cheering erupted, and if John smiled, it was honest, even if something in him still felt...

_Partnerless_, he decided. Not just in the sense of dance, but in the sense that some other half was absent, now. He'd been swung out into the empty space of the floor, and no hands were reaching out to pull him back.

God, and now he was waxing poetic. He stared into his pint and wondered idly if getting someone to buy him another was worth it, as the thumping bass distorted his reflection over and over again.

* * *

"Who's the prime minister?"

Sherlock didn't move from where he was stretched out on the couch, steepled hands beneath his chin. "Thinking," he deigned to murmur.

A large sigh echoed from the kitchen, followed by shuffling paper, then the sounds of small steps. Hmm, he thought the subtle message of '_go away_' had regardless been clear. "I bet you just don't know," Beth taunted.

He allowed one narrow eye to open, and glared at her as he corrected, "I just don't _care_."

"You're useless, you know. Daddy always helps me with my homework, and he always knows the answers."

A - what was she, thirteen? Eleven? Regardless, a _child_ had no reason for such smug superiority. Both eyes opened, as if the force of his glare unobstructed would be enough to quell her at last. She only shrugged. _Shrugged_ at _him_.

He sat up on the couch, forking his hands through his hair. "No one always knows the answers."

"Daddy does."

He breathed out heavily through his nose. "Your father couldn't point out a good _fouetté _if it literally kicked him in the face."

She still looked skeptical. "He's your instructor."

He waved a hand. "Semantics."

"Is there anything you _can_ do?" she sighed, falling into one of the empty armchairs across from the sofa.

"Point out a good _fouetté_," he rejoined, and, unexpectedly, that earned him a smile. His forehead creased, as he watched her sitting up taller in the chair, staring down at the hands in her lap, something grown meek and shy out of the teases of before. "What is it _now_?" he asked impatiently, and she took a deep breath.

"Is there anything you could teach me? For ballet?"

Oh. "I don't teach," he answered flatly.

The smile disappeared. "You taught Mr. John the other day."

John Watson. A good way to return to the problem at hand. He wet his lips. "John only needed pointers. It's different."

"Well, I don't see how," she said, voice hard, arms crossing in front of her chest. He was abruptly reminded of her father, and ran his hands through his hair again to dispel the image.

"Isn't there something - maths, don't you need help with maths? I can do maths," he tried instead. Music was a lot like maths. Counting rhythms, finding the right equation... and there was always the perfect, logical solution in the end. Both strove for some higher goal, something just beyond human comprehension in their mental realities.

Well. _Most_ human comprehension.

But her reply was cut short when Lestrade's footsteps sounded upon the stairs. God, could he have been any longer, Sherlock wondered with a quick glance at his watch. Both he and Beth jumped to their feet as Lestrade walked through the door.

He raised an eyebrow. "...Interrupting something?"

"No," they both said at once. Beth sighed loudly and stalked back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to pounce on Lestrade.

"Did you get it? What does it say?" As Lestrade produced the file from his coat Sherlock nearly bowled him over in his excitement.

"Give us a minute, alright?" he responded, sliding smoothly over to take Sherlock's previous spot on the couch. He sank into the cushions with a lengthy groan. Sherlock stepped over the table and sat down on top of it, knees jittering with excitement as Lestrade took interminable ages to sit back up and hand him John Watson's history, bound up neat and pretty in its dull, drab casing.

Much the same as John Watson himself.

"You were right," Lestrade said at last, as Sherlock flicked through the papers. CV, articles. More rubbish, some of it useful.

"Surprise, surprise," Sherlock said, distracted, just as his eyes fell to an old photograph. It was blurred, and there were many heads in this class of John's past, but towards the back right was a form that was solid and steady and precise, all while some beautiful ease floated his arms and legs into a strong, elevated fifth position.

"You were right," repeated Lestrade, his eyeroll bleeding into his tone, "about his training from before. He's Cecchetti, though, don't know if you -"

"Obviously," Sherlock breathed, and passed the photograph over. He pointed John out before returning to the rest of the file. "You can see the attention to anatomy. Every movement is..." Sherlock's eyes fell to another photograph, and this time, he stopped completely.

Lestrade was nodding along, but he looked up when Sherlock's voice faded into silence. "Sherlock?" he prompted.

Sherlock gave a start. He whipped the photograph around. "You did not," he said, voice stiff, "mention this."

This picture was newer, grainy for having been cut out of a newspaper but in no way obscuring the subject. It was John, and he was dancing - but not ballet. Not even close.

Lestrade scratched at the back of his neck. "Yeah, that's the other thing. He's a swinger. And not in your, er, relationship sort of way, either."

The same purity of movement was there, but it was all strung out. There was an obscene amount of... looseness, to what John was doing, as he swung his partner away. She, in turn, was graceful, but her poise had devolved into some lively, unpostured movement and she was laughing, _laughing_ of all things. While _performing_. And John... John was, too, some joy broad on his face and broad in his dancing feet. He traced the thread of it down from John's wrinkled eyes, to his waistcoat, to the supple bend of his knees.

Lestrade, apparently done with waiting, prodded, "Is that going to be a problem?"

Sherlock snapped the folder shut in one hand. "It shouldn't be. He's teaching a ballet class now, after all, isn't he?"

"I think it might be as a favor to his partner," Lestrade nodded. "The one in the photo used to be Beth's teacher. But frankly, I'm more worried about the shoulder injury from '99, if we're being honest."

Sherlock shrugged, getting to his feet and looking down at Lestrade. "Regardless. He had some..." His eyes flitted quickly away. "Nevermind."

"'Some?'" Lestrade echoed, a glimmer, the trace of laughter, in his dark eyes.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "It doesn't matter. Trust my judgement on this, he's the one."

"Are you ever going to tell me why him?" he asked, calling after Sherlock as he moved to slip the file into his bookcase. "Why this washed-up, old, potentially shoulder-favoring dancer who's teaching in some dive and never made it as one of the greats? I could probably have wheedled Irene into coming back from the states, so really, Sherlock. You've got to understand why I... wonder."

There was a suggestion curled there, sitting casual on his tongue, and Sherlock's spine went stiff as he recognized it. "It's not like that," he said, shortly, and stepped away from the books.

"I didn't say it was like anything." Lestrade had gotten up, and was crossing the room towards Sherlock. "You just have to understand, people are beginning to wonder why the great Sherlock Holmes is coming to all these classes at _Kitty's_, for godsakes. Not even touching on the fact that they're classes full of small children, and, well, you can see I've had to field some rather interesting inquiries this week."

"Let them talk," Sherlock muttered, and turned around, only to find Lestrade blocking his path. His shoulders were set at a determined angle, his head tilted, and he peered at Sherlock with something like concern.

"You said, awhile back, that this choice affects me just as much as it does you. And you know I hate to admit it, but you're right. I have to know I can trust you and trust him, trust this John Watson of yours. And you're not giving me much to go on."

Sherlock heard the unspoken question, just as he always had and always would: _what do you see that I don't?_

Almost without thought, Sherlock's leg lifted. His toe, foot carefully arched above it, slipped over the wooden floor. The shiver at its cold touch was forgotten in his concentration, and his other foot sunk soft along the hard ground. His arms, as if pulled by the puppet strings of greater masters, rose to second position.

Of all things, Sherlock smiled, somewhat helplessly. "He listened," he said, simply. "He didn't have to, and even then," his calf, supple and straight, rounded behind him, "there was a potential there that, despite his age, his looks, the swing and his everything - when he danced, it was…"

Sherlock looked down his arms, seeing instead the careful length of John's bones, firm and steady. Humerus, ulna, radius; what would he have learned by the skeleton under his skin? Looking down, it was John's sharp feet, phalanges to metatarsals and the rest running smoothly toward tibia and fibula, with the ligaments and tendons piecing him together into one long, beautiful line. Dance, humming throughout the interconnected oneness of his body.

It was because Sherlock had wondered. What that was like.

"What dancing should be," he finished.

As one, his hands and feet fell away, and he straightened.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well."

Sherlock hummed.

"Wow," said Beth.

They turned to look at her, and she shrugged. "I'd trust him, Dad."

Knowing that, if it had been a battle in the first place, he would have lost, Lestrade rolled his eyes skyward. "Heaven help me, I knew you would." He settled his gaze back on his daughter with a grin. "And how was class today, with Mr. Creepy here looking in?"

"I am not creepy," Sherlock scoffed, following them into his kitchen.

Later, as Lestrade was readying himself and Beth for the drive home, he turned to Sherlock. Pulling his arms through his coat sleeves, he asked, "And what if he says no?"

Sherlock hadn't thought about that, but then, he hadn't needed to. "He won't," he said, a confidence in his tone that was enough to lift Lestrade's eyebrows to his hairline. But when Sherlock didn't back down, he just sighed again.

"Alright. Will you ask him by Friday, then?" When Sherlock hesitated, the eyebrows shot back up. "Sherlock, you've been studying the man for two weeks now. If you wait any longer, your choreography's going to have to be very simple and very clever."

"Oh, I've got it all already," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "He'll just need to - what?"

Because Lestrade had snorted, rocking back on his heels. At Sherlock's narrow-eyed accusation, he looked up, mouth quirking at the corners. "If this guy is as good as you say, I wonder just how willing he's going to be to have you dictate everything he does. I think...ah, well." He threw his hands up, making to leave down the stairs.

"What?" Sherlock asked. He reached out and grabbed Lestrade's arm. "What?" he repeated, looking at him very hard. Lestrade was always giving him unnecessary advice. To not follow through...

"I just think he might surprise you, is all." Gently, he pried Sherlock's hand away, and added, "Often, things like this don't come entirely free."

"Dad!" Beth appeared at the bottom of the stairs, face set in impatient lines. "The cab's been here for ages."

"Coming, sweetheart," he said, and continued down the stairs, giving Sherlock a lazy wave goodbye.

Sherlock shook himself, realizing he'd been staring after Lestrade for far longer than was necessary when the door slammed shut. He then promptly dismissed those words, because it'd become something of a habit to ignore whatever Lestrade was saying - teacher or not.

He would ask John tomorrow. He would not worry about what John might ask in return. He tucked his hands in his pockets and retreated back into the empty room. For a moment, just a moment, he imagined John filling it. He imagined John dancing in that space and filling it with energy until it threatened to -

He blinked. Odd. Like uneasy smoke, he waved the visions away, and moved to retreat to his room. But not before he crept to the bookshelf, retrieved the file, and took one last look at John in his swinger's garb, that strange curve of a smile filling his face with a joy that was all mystery to Sherlock. Ballet was poise and elegance and concentrated smiles, if anything. Not... not this.

He had no idea how long he stood, peering into the photo, wondering if the opportunity to dance with Sherlock Holmes would be enough to put that same smile on John Watson's lips.

Abruptly, he tucked the file under his arm, whirling around and reaching for the laptop discarded on his armchair. Perhaps Lestrade was right. Perhaps he needed some sort of, of - leverage, yes. Because they would be great, and Sherlock just had to make John see it, too. And he was willing to do anything to prove it.

_Anything_, Sherlock thought, looking down again at the photo, at the man and his dance and his arms spread wide. _Anything at all_.

* * *

_Thursday, December 10th_

* * *

When John walked into class his usual half hour early on Friday, there was a by-now familiar shape warming up at the barre.

"Oh, god," John murmured, letting his bag slip from his shoulder by the door.

The dark head turned, Sherlock's keen eyes fixing on John's over his shoulder, gone blue in their amusement. "Not quite," he said smoothly, his knees bending in tandem with his voice as he went through all the typical motions: _plié_ in the first position, the second, and so on; his left hand gripped the bar with his right in a _bras bas_, moving upward as he worked. "Join me?" his voice rumbled eventually, the same humor spun thick in his tone.

John ducked his head, hiding his flush, but nonetheless found his feet stepping closer. "How did you get in?" he made himself ask, though as he aligned himself behind Sherlock at the barre, he knew his curiosity had won out over any common sense.

Besides, Sherlock was already blowing out a breath, letting John's question roll down his elevated arm in an easy slide. "Do you really have to ask?"

The point being valid, John didn't answer, instead joining Sherlock now in his _tendus_ - their right feet stroking forward and returning to the first position, again, again. As Sherlock switched to fifth by the metronome likely ticking in his head, he found himself mirroring exactly Sherlock's body, focusing in on himself at the same time as he waited for Sherlock's cues.

He'd almost forgotten this. How much concentration it took, but also how good it felt to not be working always alone. The pleasure of success in matching someone moment by moment.

He shook his head at himself, allowing his alignment to shift as he smirked at the floor. Almost as if sensing the change, Sherlock tilted his head back. "What?" he asked, not for a second pausing in his seamless movements.

"Just wondering when you're going to let me know what the hell this is all about," John replied easily. They'd moved on into _rond de jambe,_ now, feet painting semicircles on the ground as Sherlock dictated the rise of their arms: up, out, circling forward to ascend in a dreamy wave, rotating back, and down. The glide of it sent a thrill throughout John's body, his arms tingling as they completed each set.

Sherlock rotated at the bar, facing John, and John did the same until his back was to Sherlock. Presumably to work the left side, but John knew when he was being watched. He lifted his head and began to cycle back through. Pliés_, left leg extended_ en devant_, breathe..._

For long minutes, neither of them spoke. Their warm up had no musical accompaniment, either, just the steady rhythm of his own breath and Sherlock's at his back, just the creaking of the wooden floor, the constant motion of their bodies as they strengthened, hardened, readied themselves for the dance.

Well, John thought idly, though his steps didn't falter. Sherlock, perhaps, readied himself to dance. John readied himself to go through the same thing all over again with his students. There wasn't much of an opportunity for anything too fancy with a group of nine and ten year olds in this sort of setting, and at this point John couldn't recall if that was a disappointment or a relief.

"Do you know," Sherlock said, his low voice floating John down out of his head, "that your left shoulder is much stiffer than your right?"

John had no trouble imagining Sherlock watching the movements of his back as he rounded through his positions, and was glad, again, that he couldn't see his face. But before he could reply, Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Don't be so pedestrian; it's not a criticism. You move remarkably... well, considering."

"Um," John stalled, regaining his balance in both figurative and literal ways, "thank you?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, returning briefly to silence. "Does that affect your swing career?"

Now John faltered. He turned back to Sherlock, both hands gripping the barre. Sherlock stopped as well, looking at John's suspicious face with something like wary surprise. "Prat," John said, but without much feeling. He'd sort of acclimated to the stalker thing by now. "You looked me up. You know all about the infection."

Sherlock gave an off-hand shrug. "I assumed you looked me up as well. It was only fair," he pointed out.

The full-length mirror lining the opposite wall reflected John's exasperated face back to him. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he asked, his eyes catching on the clock. His students would start arriving soon. Unless Sherlock was planning on giving some sort of practical demonstration, which had really not been anywhere on John's radar, he didn't see any reason for the getup or Sherlock's appearance or... any of this, at all.

Then again, he hadn't seen reason in any of Sherlock's appearances, but there he'd been anyway. The thought caused him to look at Sherlock with just a little more intrigue.

Sherlock's eyes seemed to sharpen. "First, I'd like you to answer my question." He waited, expectant.

John had to reel back through their conversation. "Oh." On whether or not he could swing. "Well, you just admitted you'd looked me up, so. You know we're at the top."

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Statistics are useless. I've seen your name on the charts, yes, but haven't seen you work. Do you even lift?"

John snorted. "Really? That's the joke you're going for?" But Sherlock looked entirely serious, and John lifted his eyebrows, blowing out a breath himself. Okay, then. Play it his way. "Yes, I lift; I'm a swinger and a Jack at that, so I sort of have to."

"You are left-handed, yes? So how does your shoulder stand it?" Sherlock questioned, and his fingers twitched at his side, looking as if they were restraining themselves from reaching out to touch. Good, his words on permission from their last conversation had stuck, then.

"It's... it's not like ballet. I'm not holding anyone up for days on end, it's usually a much quicker... thing." John abruptly shook his head. "Sorry, where is this going?"

His voice had taken on a hard edge, and by the flash in Sherlock's eyes, it had been noted. Almost before John could blink, Sherlock was striding toward the center of the room, beckoning for John to follow.

He did, if with wary steps. Sherlock turned, and when John stopped, they were facing each other, squared and intent. "I want you to try lifting me," Sherlock said, and raised his arms.

Now John smirked. "Excuse me?"

Above his head, Sherlock's hands did a fluttery, dismissive gesture. "You heard me," he said, in a lazy drawl that set John's teeth on edge. Bossy twat.

"Yes, but after everything I just said -"

"I just want you to try." Sherlock tilted his head. "Is that so much to ask?"

John folded his arms across his chest. Sherlock kept his comically high above his head, looking anywhere but at John.

Sherlock sighed. John blew out a breath.

The clock on the wall ticked, ticked, ticked.

The smile that stretched Sherlock's face when John's hands settled at his waist was maddening. "Do people ever tell you that you're really, really irritating?" John remarked, his fingers flexing against the soft plush of Sherlock's t-shirt.

"Always," Sherlock said, and then, "Now, what I want you to - oh!" John had sidestepped around Sherlock, and now behind him, leaned forward to press his chest along his back and murmur in his ear.

"As the one with the old injury, I think I'll dictate how we do this?" It wasn't really a question, and so Sherlock didn't really feel the need to answer - a fact for which John was grateful, since he was currently focusing on what, exactly, was the best way to do this. God, did he even remember _pas de deux_? Or did the fact that they were both men throw everything out the window as it was?

Christ, Sherlock was really bloody tall, wasn't he?

"Alright," he decided, "can you - "

"_Arabesque_?"

"Please." Sherlock's leg rose behind him, up in a fluted arc towards the ceiling. One of his arms stretched before him, the other lengthened out behind. He was at once taut as bowstring and completely relaxed, almost - bored-looking, even. There was something remarkable to it, John had to admit. The effortlessness of his figure was everything ballet should be. What he was doing dancing with John, then. Well.

He shook himself back to the task at hand. John considered, and then, slowly, slid his right arm around Sherlock's waist, while his other hand wrapped beneath Sherlock's raised thigh, all of his fingers spreading wide. Sherlock's back arched, a recognition of what was coming.

"Ready? One, two..." John's flattened palms pressed, his arms lifted, and Sherlock's other leg left the ground, pointed back at his body in a triangle beneath him. His arms remained in their steady, straight line.

"Alright?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes," John breathed. This wasn't particularly difficult, as lifts went.

"Try walking. Just a circle, it won't kill you."

"This feels ridiculous," John commented as they completed their circuit, Sherlock still balanced in his arms.

"It is. Boring, too. Want to try something more fun?" And then Sherlock was dipping low in his arms. Fishing, John remembered it was called. He scrambled to stay in balance with Sherlock as the man's long fingers swept the ground and rose again. Moving with the natural momentum, John hauled him upwards, and then Sherlock's legs were kicking out, pinwheeling back to the floor.

John's hands slipped naturally away, but Sherlock caught them smoothly and John found his hands again on Sherlock's hips "Two side-steps and a lift," Sherlock said over his shoulder, panting slightly, and then they were off. Like parallel lines, they moved. Their feet struck out, a skip, and then John hoisted Sherlock into the air, Sherlock's legs stretching out briefly before John returned him to the earth.

He turned Sherlock to face him. "Dip," countered John, and Sherlock did, though as he lowered himself he shot John a smirk.

"This isn't ballet."

John lifted an eyebrow. "Could be."

For a moment, Sherlock stared at him, something inscrutable on his face. Then, slowly, he took breath, and kicked his legs up above John's back. He could feel them as they spread in a perfect, pointed V. Sherlock's arm trailed along the ground, pulling upwards as John returned the rest of him to standing.

"Come on, we can do better than that." Sherlock's feet touched the ground again, and the both of them dropped their positions. Sherlock looked down into John's face, some childish glee catching John off-guard as the full force of it hit him. Despite Sherlock's words, he was... having fun. Doing this. With John.

John was about to say something, but the low creak of the door had them both whipping around. Beth marched in, Rachel tiptoeing behind her. Both girls stopped short at the sight of Sherlock and John, standing together in the center of the room.

"Oh, god." Beth was the first to break the silence. "Again?"

"Hello, Beth, Rachel," John said, hoping he wasn't as red as he felt. He stole a glance at Sherlock, who just smirked at him before waltzing over to his things, still scattered haphazardly about the barre. He looked back at his students. "I'll be with you in a minute, girls." He nodded, then trotted back off after Sherlock.

He leaned against the barre as Sherlock rifled through his pack on the floor. "I would have said yes," he commented, idly.

"To dinner? Excellent. Tomorrow at 7, then."

The smile fell from John's face. "What? No, no. To more... lifts practice, I mean." Dinner? Where did that even come from? Not that John wasn't flattered, or fighting down a very embarrassing blush, but... _what?_

Sherlock didn't bother to look up, sighing in victory when he found his shoes, and still not meeting John's eyes as he began to pry his flats off and slip the others on. "That's what I want to discuss with you at dinner. And not just lifts." Now Sherlock did pause, his fingers hovering over the laces. "I have a proposition for you, and obviously, no time to discuss it now. So, please."

He lifted his chin towards John, finally looking at him. Those eyes were a different color, now, some sort of green-silver, wide and open and pleading, and _oh, dammit_.

"Does that work on everyone?"

Sherlock didn't pretend cluelessness. "Is it working on you?"

John sighed. "Yes."

Sherlock smirk widened into a full-on grin, deep grooves of delight carved against his cheeks. "Then yes. But not everyone impresses me," he finished, unfolding from the ground and taking his bag with him. Now that he'd changed out of his flats, he was even taller. John nearly had to crane his neck up to keep eye contact, close as they were.

"Do I impress you?"

In the midst of shrugging the strap over his head, Sherlock paused again. "Come to dinner and find out."

John found himself laughing, and after a moment, Sherlock joined in, some surprised but honest chuckle rumbling from his throat. Mindful of his waiting students, John finally got himself under control enough to ask, "Where?"

"Angelo's. 7 o'clock," he said, and moved off toward the door, lifting his hand in farewell.

John stared after him. Sherlock, even just walking across the floor, was a picture of elegance. Even when he wasn't dancing, he glided. But dancing with him, short as it had been... it felt just a bit like he'd taken flight, too.

And now John had the distinct feeling he'd passed some test. What it was, though, and what Sherlock's proposition was all about... he supposed he'd have to find out tomorrow.

"See you," he called, softly, not anywhere near loud enough to be heard.

But Sherlock nonetheless turned, caught his eye, and winked, before he disappeared and allowed the door to swing shut behind him.

John wondered how he was to teach a dance class when he was so abruptly dizzy. But, turning, he shook it off best he could. All the better to avoid the knowing stares being tossed in his direction, by parents and their children alike.

"Alright," he called at last, moving back into the room and rubbing his hands together, as if that would be enough to erase the feeling of Sherlock's hips beneath his fingers. "I want to see you stretching!"

Tomorrow, he thought again, as they moved into their positions. Tomorrow, Angelo's, at 7.

He had no idea what to expect.

John had never been more ready for anything in his _life_.

* * *

_**The Nutcracker** - Tchaikovsky's two-act ballet about a young girl who receives a Nutcracker doll from her mysterious uncle at a Christmas party and dreams about their adventures  
__**fouetté** - a 'whipping movement' in which the body turns in the direction of the working leg as it passed in front of behind of the supporting leg  
__**Cecchetti Method** - an Italian ballet technique notable for its attention to anatomy and rigidity within the confines of classical ballet. Sherlock, by contrast, is of the Russian **Vaganova** **Method**, which is known for incorporating the whole body in every movement for more expressive range.  
**The Positions** - first, second, third, fourth, and fifth are the positions used by the majority of ballet schools, though some additional positions exist. They are a means of placement for feet and arms in their ready positions.  
**bras bas** - the 'attention' position of the arms in ballet, where they hang loosely curved with the back edge of the hand resting at the thighs  
**tendu** - a warm-up movement in which the foot and leg point in a specific direction without leaving the floor  
**rond de jambe** - the leg extends in a certain direction and creates half-circles with the point foot on the floor, returning to the first position to repeat  
**en devant** - in the forward position  
**Jack** - the leader in a partnered swing dance  
**pas de deux** - literally 'step of two,' this refers to partnered dance in ballet  
**arabesque** - the body is supported on one leg with the other held straight behind  
**fishing** - the 'fish dive' in ballet, named for its appearance, where the lifted partner starts in arabesque and is levered to the floor as the supporting knee bends_


	4. Chapter 4

_Friday, December 11th_

* * *

_7:01_

Traffic was bad. That was all. It'd only been a minute, there was no reason to worry.

_7:02_

Sherlock chewed impatiently at a hangnail. He darted another look at his watch.

_7:03_

This was ridiculous.

Sherlock almost considered calling the whole thing off right then and there. How did people do this? Lestrade had been the one to make all his contacts in the past, had pushed him and prodded him in the right directions. It'd hadn't looked difficult when he did it. But God, this was _agonizing_. _People_ were agonizing. _John_ was -

John was coming through the door, shaking a spray of raindrops out of his hair. Sherlock observed as he struggled with his coat zipper, surveyed the restaurant, warded off Angelo and finally, finally spotted Sherlock in the back.

Meeting his gaze, John smiled. Sherlock looked away as John approached, his eyes only moving upwards once more when John slid into the seat across from him.

"Hello," John said.

"You're -" Sherlock checked his watch again. "Four minutes late."

John was looking at him with raised eyebrows, the hint of a smile tucked into the lines of his face. But the arrival of Angelo, looming over them, spared John from answering for himself.

"Sherlock's friend," he said, voice warm and gruff as he settled a menu in front of John. "Why have we not been introduced, eh?"

"Um," John said slowly, gaze darting between them both. "New friend, actually."

"Ahh," he said, and Sherlock almost - _almost_ - had time to prepare for the meaty hand clapping him on the back and giving him a good, solid shake. He was still stumbling a bit over John's words, truth be told, and Sherlock rarely ever stumbled. Was this going well? 'Friend' seemed good, if... unexpected.

But Angelo was still speaking, giving him a conspiratorial wink and squeezing those enormous fingers over Sherlock's shoulder. "But a _good _friend, mmm? Everything's free, on the house for you and for your date. I'll send Billy back around for your orders." And with that, he smiled beatifically at them both before waltzing away.

"I provide Angelo with a year-round supply of tickets to the ballet," Sherlock explained quickly, because John was giving him this _look_. "He is, somewhat surprisingly, a fan."

"Ah-huh," John replied slowly, and then looked down at his menu, apparently declining to comment further. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Was he - was he still smiling? Sherlock spared a quick glance for his own menu - there wasn't anything remotely humorous there, unless one counted the wine suggestions for that evening, but some things couldn't be helped.

Sherlock forced himself to sit in silence until Billy returned. Apparently, this was the proper thing to do when introducing someone to a new restaurant; Greg had told him so. He was to give him time to decide what to eat and then time to actually eat it as well. He'd also told him, verbatim, not to 'frighten him off with that creepy staring thing you do.'

He'd never much been one for following orders.

John was shifting under his gaze. He could tell John knew Sherlock was watching him, but he resolutely did not look up from his menu, even as his face began to, curiously, blush. The faint tinge like a patterning bloom, lighting up John's body from within. It was close to the same color, he noted, John flushed when he danced. Not quite, but close.

As Billy at last disappeared with their menus, John sat back, lacing his fingers on the table, and eyed Sherlock again. Sherlock relaxed. If anything, he should have been more keyed up, given the importance of everything he was about to say. The stakes were near impossibly high. But there was a readiness to John's body, and it overlaid some eagerness in his eyes that Sherlock knew very well, and Sherlock was still fairly certain he was going to say yes.

Sherlock could be very, very convincing.

"So. Your proposition," John started, his voice even.

Finally. Sherlock leaned across the table, laying his hands flat on its surface for fear they'd reach out to shake him closer. "You've been asked to the International Lindy Hop Competition in America."

John blinked. "How did you -?"

"You and Clara won the All-Star event in the European Championships three years in a row now. It's only logical that you're high up enough on their radar to be invited."

Nodding slowly, John folded his arms. "Alright, yeah. That's good, you're - you're right. But what does that have to do with anything? I obviously can't -" he broke off, shook his head in agitation, and leaned forward again. "Look, Sherlock. Clara's in hospital, I don't have a partner. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not competing."

"That so?" Sherlock trilled, and this time flashed a quick grin when John tilted his head, still unaware. "But you need the money."

John's face went stony. "Who said anything about -"

"I did." Sherlock quickly went on, eyes boring into John's and parsing for his understanding. "John, it's not a difficult leap - you're employed only at teaching ballet, which Lestrade - Beth's father - assures me is not nearly as high-paying as people would expect. Competitive dancing was how you earned your living. Risky, but you were good, so it didn't matter."

Billy arrived back with their drinks. Sherlock watched the red wine spilling into the cradle of John's glass and stopped it for him, because John was still too busy staring at Sherlock with something between awe and anger. But John shook himself as the server walked away, resignation taking up a place on his twisted lips instead.

"I was good," he cut in, reaching for his glass. "'Was.' No matter how much I need the money, Sherlock... You reach a point where you, you know who you work well with. It'd just be. It'd just be too difficult, now. Everyone's got their somebody. My partner is injured and there's absolutely no one at my level willing to partner an old, wrung-out swinger like me."

"You can't be older than 35," Sherlock pointed out, earning himself a short, rueful grin. "And that's not true, there is someone willing to partner you."

"35 exactly." The smile disappeared. "But what do you mean? Who?"

Rather than puzzling out the difference between the hope and uncertainty warring in John's voice, Sherlock blew out a breath and allowed a word to fall out with it. "Me."

John sat back again. He opened his mouth. Stopped.

And then he laughed.

_Laughed_.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his grip threatening to crush the wine glass in his hand. The longer John laughed, the more distressing it became. He'd said nothing funny. No, running back through their conversation, he felt the offer had been entirely reasonable. "What is it?" he was forced to ask, the words snapping out of his throat.

John was wiping tears from his eyes. Tears, of all things. Still choking around giggles, he fixed Sherlock with a sympathetic eye that set his teeth on edge. "Sherlock, have you ever danced swing a day in your life?"

Sherlock waved a hand like he was batting away John's question. "Irrelevant."

"No, no, very relevant," John said, sobering slightly. He rested his arms on the table again, head tilted to one side. "It's not like ballet."

"Obviously."

"What I mean is," John continued, rolling his eyes, "You can't just... _know it_, and I can't teach you everything in time for a competition. I'm, uh, I'm flattered, Sherlock, but there's a lot more to it than you seem to think."

"It can't be that difficult. All you do is jump around and lift and... whatever else it is you do."

"Yeah, see, that right there is exactly what I'm saying."

This was not going as planned. "John," Sherlock said, sharpening his tone. "You have to let me partner you."

"Why on earth - Sherlock, ballet is your thing, and I can always give you swing lessons on weekends or something if you're that -"

"No," he interrupted. "I need to partner you in the competition."

He could very nearly see John working to understand. But, as seemed the usual token of the human race, he finally shook his head and shrugged. Sherlock felt something in him lurch, lower and lower in his stomach.

"Okay, you've lost me. Why? Why is this so important to you?" John was refusing to look at him, and there was a slump to his shoulders that, strangely, strengthened Sherlock's resolve.

He sat taller. "Because I need you to partner me," he answered quietly. "A _pas de deux_, for my audition with the Paris Opera Ballet."

He saw John do a double take. His eyes swept up to Sherlock's, to a point just over Sherlock's shoulder, and then back down. And then, slowly, he just shook his head. "No."

Sherlock's mouth was dry, his fists clenched so hard at the edge of the table he could feel his own skin catching beneath his nails. With a gusty sigh of frustration, he leaned over the table, his voice infused with an earnest thrum that he could feel, in that moment, echoed in every cell of his body. "Come on, you were there. Your _pirouette_ in class was one thing, and the... what we did was another. Both of them were good. But, John. We could be great. You sensed it, you had to have sensed it."

"And what if I did?" Heat slashed through John's voice. "It's still been years. That doesn't change. You need someone who actually knows what they're doing, who actually looks like a bloody danseur, alright? I'm flattered, but -"

"Stop being flattered," Sherlock snapped, his temper fraying at last. "Be eager. Be brave. You can't tell me you don't want to do it."

"Stop telling me how I feel about this," John retorted, but this time, he failed to match Sherlock's anger. There was some lost element to him, some maddening thing in the empty way his hands were flexing on the tabletop. Seeking a partner, a purpose, perhaps? Sherlock was offering it all. John was his ticket, but Sherlock was John's as well. How could he not see it? What was Sherlock missing?

"You don't even know me, Sherlock," John said, quiet now, with his gaze fixed on something out the watery window. "And I don't know you at all."

Sherlock snorted. "You speak about dancing like it's something intimate."

John's face swiveled back to him. His lips quirked humorlessly. "Isn't it?"

For several seconds, they sat, and they stared. The ambient drone of the restaurant and its patrons washed over them, filled their silence where neither John nor Sherlock could find the words, though thousands of them - all useless, now - continued to tumble over themselves in Sherlock's head.

Billy came with their food. John stared down at his pasta and didn't look particularly enthused. Sherlock ignored his dish altogether, in favor of staring in alarm as John tapped the waiter on the shoulder and asked for a box.

"What are you doing?" he asked, though he had a feeling he knew.

John confirmed it, already pulling his coat back onto his lap in awkward, jerky movements. "I should go," he sighed.

"Why? Not what you were expecting?" There was a coldness there that Sherlock didn't try to contain.

John chuckled, a soft, wry sound. "To be honest, I didn't know what to expect." He rose.

"You weren't what I expected." Sherlock hadn't meant to blurt it out, but there it was. No taking it back now. He looked up, catching John's eyes in a rare moment of indigo vulnerability, something just as deep and sad as their color.

But the spark in their depths. That, that was what had led them here.

"Why," Sherlock asked, "Why would you have come out tonight, if dancing with me hadn't felt right?"

John was frozen in place. The last of the words in Sherlock's brain slipped out. "Please. Please, you're all - just think about it."

Defeated. He'd been _defeated_. And the worst of it was, he had no idea why. It had seemed so certain. John had been - interesting. More than interesting.

John was still unmoving at the side of the table, his presence a physical sensation, blocking out everything else. Like an eclipse, only his was the blackness caused by looking at the sun too long. Something blinding, and brilliant.

"If you're going to leave, you should leave," Sherlock growled at last. He turned his gaze pointedly to the rain-streaked window.

When he looked back, it was across the nameless faces of a Friday night out, and John was gone.

* * *

Not two steps out of the restaurant, and John was already regretting leaving Sherlock behind. But he couldn't go back now and admit he was wrong, not when he'd already worked so hard to stand by his convictions.

Dancing with Sherlock... At the moment John was marching through a freezing rain, splashing through puddles and tripping off the pavement. But he could still feel the grace of Sherlock's torso turning in his arms, the bend of his supple spine, the ghost-sensation of another's legs above his head as he looked down into impossible eyes and felt at once turned upside-down and balanced, at peace, like he almost never was.

The cold shock of another raindrop slipping under his collar jerked John back to the present, and he shifted roughly in his coat, only more angry for having had the thought.

Because Sherlock just wanted to make a deal. John had thought maybe they were becoming... friends? It sounded stupid even in his head, now, as he thought it.

More than that, and this sounded even worse - but he had years and age, aches and pains on him, that Sherlock would never understand. What he was asking was impossible. Swing was right out - lifting Clara when necessary had been easy; she'd always been petite and willing to go slow and easy with him.

Sherlock was the opposite. He was tall and demanding and dynamic. John had only seen the hard flint of his gaze in passing, but he had a feeling that the man danced like he lived, like he moved - purposefully, with bravado and with beauty.

And John. John did not. Imagining the two of them at a _pas de deux _was almost comical. They were so unevenly matched John was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept that Sherlock had even considered it.

But what Sally had said kept returning to him, just as ugly in his mind now as it was then. If Sherlock had made as few friends in the business as she said, then maybe it wasn't too far a stretch to think Sherlock was at the end of his rope, and a broken-down, short, stocky partner was just what he needed. And wouldn't Sherlock look comparatively good next to him, anyway, and wasn't that just what he'd want at such a grand audition...

John dumped the rest of his pasta in the first roadside bin he came across. He was starting to feel ill.

Just as he was turning around, steeling himself for the tedious search for a cab, a car rolled up beside him, sleek and quiet as the voice that came out the open window. "John Hamish Watson, yes? Do please get in the car."

It was enough to make him stop walking, at least. He peered around, but the interior of the car was dark. This was the oddest line for a kidnapping.

"Don't make me order you."

That was better. John snorted. Wondering if he was actually the stupidest person alive, he stalked over to the window and looked in more closely. There was a man in a suit, looking down at his watch with a pained expression that looked vaguely familiar, but John was positive he'd never seen him before.

"Doesn't seem like such a good idea," John said reasonably. It brought the man's icy blue gaze up to meet his own. The face changed, shifting into some approximation of a smile. It sent a chill down John's spine, and with all his effort, he stood his ground.

"You could continue to stand out in the rain, if you prefer."

John noted that the ground he stood on was still very wet. "Do I die at the end of this or get dropped off at my flat?"

The man made a 'hmm' noise, and absolutely no other move to reassure him besides looking back down pointedly at the watch. John figured no one he knew had reason to order his murder. Sherlock might hold a grudge, now, but even that would be a little extreme for him. Though it did make him wonder -

"This is about Sherlock, isn't it?"

He didn't miss the flash of surprise on the man's face. John sighed. _Of bloody course_.

John sank into the seat opposite and the car began to pull back out into traffic. John was at least thankful for the warmth, but his eyes were still transfixed: this was by far the oddest thing that had happened to John in... possibly his life. Then again, he'd met Sherlock just a week ago, and that might forever take the cake.

"Do I amuse you, Mr. Watson?" Came the cool voice again, grating in his ears.

John cleared his throat. "No, sorry, just a... memory. I'm sorry, what exactly am I doing here?" he asked, folding his hands in his lap like an anchor.

"You're here to answer the question of what exactly you're doing with Sherlock Holmes."

"Could be wrong, but I don't think that's any of your business."

He got a look of pity in return. "On the contrary, it is every bit my business."

"How d'you mean?"

Those eyes narrowed. "We have a... difficult relationship. But I am concerned for him and his well-being, which - as you very well know - is where you come in."

John said nothing, pursing his lips instead and looking down at the floor. The man continued regardless, sighing into his next speech.

"It has come to my attention that he's asked you to take part in an audition of his, and you've refused."

John again chose silence rather than answering, but in his sweeping glance of John from toe to forehead, the man seemed to find confirmation. "I'd be willing to pay you a... meaningful sum of money to, ease your way, should you decide to do so."

John's head snapped up. He could feel a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"I meant, why? What do you or Sherlock get out of that?"

"Peace of mind," he answered smoothly, his voice gone oil-thick and sly.

John didn't even consider before he was shaking his head. "No. I can't - can't do it."

A thin eyebrow cocked itself in his direction. "Won't dance or don't want the money, because I can assure you the figure -"

"The latter, but both, yeah," John said firmly. Frustratingly, the windows had been darkened, and he had no idea where they were, or if there was any chance of his getting home after all. He clenched his teeth. "I'm not interested."

"Do you know that your shoulder injury was supposed to prevent you from dancing?"

Now John started. "What?" he clipped. The seeming non-sequitur was like a cold hand coming up around his throat. He kept his eyes very hard on the man's face, refusing to look down at his own hand.

"I have access to most of the CCTV in this system. Imagine, seeing Sherlock, dancing at," he grimaced in distaste, "_Kitty's_, with one of its nameless instructors."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Against the choking grip, his pulse was beginning to beat, hot and fast.

"You and your partner refrained from doing too many lifts. Ballroom allowed you to get away with it, though even jazz could be forgiving. But when you danced with Sherlock Holmes, none of it seemed to bother you. In fact, you seemed to... love it."

His eyes, which had been glittering in John's direction beneath the heavy darkness of the car, shifted to his phone. He smirked as the car rolled to a stop, and then, he leaned forward across the car with a smile that strayed into both the sinister and triumphant.

"You're not going to peacefully accept a retirement from this world, Mr. Watson. You simply miss dancing too much for that already."

The door beside them opened, bringing with it the rushing sounds of a downpour. But outside through the curtains of rain were the stairs rising up to John's flat, and looking around, this was his drab, grey street, these were his dull, nice-enough neighbors - he'd been brought home after all. Still reeling, he let himself be directed out by the woman simultaneously holding an umbrella, the door, and a mobile on which she was texting fiercely.

Still under the protection offered by the umbrella, he turned around. The man was still looking at him, hawk-like and intent. John opened his mouth, but the man spoke first.

"Time," he said carefully, "to choose a side."

"What sides?"

He lifted his chin. "They're choices. They both belong to you."

Then he motioned for the woman to shut the door. She did, then looked expectantly at John. Confused, he looked to her, then to the door, then back to the woman. "Oh," he said. "Right." With a sharp inhale, he steeled himself, then dashed out into the rain and up his slippery steps, huddled into his coat.

Fumbling with his key, he cursed, the water falling into his eyes making it almost impossible to see, let alone find the hole for the ruddy thing. At last, though, it clicked, and John swung inside.

Staring back behind him, the car had disappeared entirely.

The door shut softly, and for a moment, John just stood with his hand still on the knob, dripping a circle about his feet and gazing out the tiny window at the wet, wet world beyond. He was beginning to shiver, the chill from the rain on his skin beginning to absorb, settling down into his bones. But he suspected many of the tiny tremors he suppressed had absolutely nothing to do with cold. Nevertheless, he was ready to go in search of a shower and a blanket and a quiet evening by the fire.

But as his hand fell from the door, he knew there was something he had to do first. He dug his mobile out of his pocket, gripping it tight for a long, hesitated second. And then he straightened his spine, punched in a number, and waited.

He suddenly felt dizzy. Like he was about to jump off a roof, no way of knowing if he'd survive the fall.

Or spinning out onto that dance floor, with the glimmer of hope that he might be caught and pulled back in.

"Hi, Bill? Yeah, it's me. I was wondering... do you have any extra tickets to that Nutcracker performance you mentioned?"

* * *

_Saturday, December 12th_

* * *

John had been a bit surprised to find the performance was Saturday, but was relieved to hear it anyway. If - if this really worked out, like he... wondered (not hoped, he reprimanded himself, but very casually _wondered_), then maybe there'd be enough time to explain things to Sherlock.

Just maybe, if he were very lucky and Sherlock felt particularly forgiving.

John didn't think about any of this as he exited the cab in front of the London Coliseum. It'd been awhile since he'd been to a performance here, but it was just as impressive as ever. Against the pallor of the wintry sky, the warm yellow stones rose untimid and powerful to the globe at their apex, lit with a brilliant grandeur for the evening. He was still squinting up at it when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

Bill and Julie were strolling up along the pavement, and Bill gave a friendly wave as they drew closer. The three of them huddled together just before the entrance, backs toward the biting wind.

"Colder than Thatcher's tits out here," Julie chattered amiably through her teeth.

Bill rolled his eyes, looking ever the long-suffering partner. "Julie" he replied, "You're at the opera, going to see a ballet, that you partially own, in ye grande olde city of London. Thatcher and you probably would have gone out for drinks."

"She would've thought I was an immigrant not worthy of her precious time."

"Yeah, an immigrant from Liverpool."

"Hello, John," she said, ignoring her boyfriend. She was wrapped in scarves up to her eyes, but he could see her smile in them, elegant and sharp as ever. "Glad you could join us, it's been ages."

"My pleasure. Thanks for rustling up an extra ticket."

She waved him off, tutting. "Administration does have its perks."

"Drinks, see, I told you," Bill muttered, and she very nonchalantly stepped on his foot. John tried to hide his smile. He, much the same as everyone else in their acquaintance, was just waiting for the wedding invitations at this point - though, John thought privately, they were far more the eloping sort, and he was more waiting for a notice from South America or some such destination than anything else.

Lifting up on the balls of her feet to kiss his nose in mock apology, Julie then linked her other arm through John's. "Onwards, my loves," she said, and together they marched through the doors. Though John's heart was beating fast with anxiety at all the night might promise, the close warmth of his friends and the promise of laughter rising in his throat were balms that he sank into with grateful steps.

Once they were settled in their seats, John, biting his lip, attempted to hold back every question he was dying to ask about Sherlock. But Julie again turned her sly eyes on him over the side of her program.

"So," she said slowly, "William tells me Holmes has taken a bit of a shine to you."

John reddened, wondering if he was really that transparent. "Well, er. Yes. So it would seem."

She tilted her head, absently pulling her black hair over the opposite shoulder, continuing to run her hands through its subtle gloss as she regarded him with something between curiosity and trepidation. "I'm usually in an office, but the few times I've been down to see rehearsals, well. He's an excellent dancer, couldn't really ask for anything better."

"But?" John could sense it coming, and she smirked, almost wistfully.

"But we won't be able to hang on to him for long."

"Oh." This, John had not prepared himself for. "What are you -"

"He's too brilliant. We keep relegating him to smaller solo parts because he doesn't... hmm, how should I put this?"

"Doesn't play well with others?" John tried, thinking back to Sally's words from the other night.

She pursed her lips. "Well, not just that. Everyone's always tense around him. He's demanding, sometimes too much." Her smile, when she turned it on him, was troubled. "He's good - he's like an explosion on that stage sometimes. But all that precision, all that bombast, it - it tends to lack a certain... feeling, perhaps."

Sherlock's rib cage under his hands had shuddered with breath, as his arms had lifted in the heights of some foreign ecstasy and dropped to the earth like harbingers of despair, as his legs had painted circles on the floor and his mouth twisted with the effort of it. John had a hard time believing her, and sure enough, she threw up her hands in mock exasperation.

"But what do I know? I'm a paperwork-and-meetings person; the dancing is your thing. You can judge for yourself."

"Thank you," John said anyway. It gave him something to think about. His heart, which had calmed in the waiting, with the quiet bustle of patrons filing in around them, began to pick up its pace yet again. He forced himself to breathe and, unclenching his hands from around his program, dedicated himself to reading every word, even the boring bits about investor acknowledgements.

The lights gave a purposeful flicker, and the last stragglers through the door scurried for their seats. John sat back in his chair, and at last his thoughts began to meld back into one, nervous drone.

The curtain rose as the auditorium went dark.

John found himself recalling the story with ease. Everyone had done at least one Nutcracker as a ballet kid, and some of the details that had been lost with time rose up again in his memory. Clara, dancing in her white nightgown, arguing with her mischievous brother, unwrapping the nutcracker from her Uncle Drosselmeyer with joy lighting her face. The tree, rising in a grand, imposing spiral up towards the ceiling as the strings played a desperate melody, fading into the sinister tones of the Mouse King and his army.

He watched, and slowly, in the delight of watching dancers who were truly gifted and trained by some of the highest standards in Europe, the real purpose behind his anxiety faded away.

The Sugar Plum Fairy looked enchanting in her white and purple ensemble, swathes of cloth draped artfully about her slim shoulders. The _pas de deux_ between her and her Cavalier tugged at John's mind, but it wasn't until the Arabian dance that he was brought back to himself with a shock.

Sherlock stood, a fifth position, his chest bare and his legs covered in a flowing, sumptuous cloth that shifted through oranges to deep, dark reds. Before the music began, he stood, the mask that obscured the top half of his face turning him regal and proud and mysterious all at once.

And then the music played, and he transformed. Dancing bare-bellied and sinuous, his partner in her deep blue fabrics ought to have been the focus, but it was Sherlock's movements that caught the eye. Every deliberate step was as tempting as it was unattainable, his flexible movements as he wove in and out of step with the ballerina at his side at once seductive and coolly aloof.

He felt a shoulder nudge against his side, and looking down, he saw Julie staring at him innocently. He shook himself, still too enraptured to even be embarrassed – _that, _that was what dancing was about. This was how it was supposed to look. Sherlock, dancing on that stage, was the epitome of what they all worked for, day in and day out. And he made it look effortless.

Their seats were close enough, though, that he could see Sherlock's face, and that was where he could begin to see Julie's point.

For all the fine, uninhibited movements of his body, that face was set and unpleasant, darting glares every so often at his partner. And as the dance wore on, it began to bleed into his steps, an unseen irritation buzzing around his frame. John had seen dancers click before. This wasn't it.

John blinked, and it was over, Sherlock and the woman disappearing from the stage to a gust of applause. He clapped along with the rest, but shot Julie a confused look. She was bent in conversation with Bill, apparently not having noticed anything. Returning his eyes to the stage, he wondered if perhaps he'd imagined the uncertainty.

What he hadn't imagined, though. There was no way he could have made up the grace and agility with which Sherlock moved, that pinpricking sensation of wrongness or not. His bad was just about everyone else's unattainable. With a pang, he realized it just confirmed for him everything he'd suspected – and now, everything he'd lost or hoped to gain back.

Now John sat on jittery nerves for the rest of the performance, entirely unable to focus even as the performance was winding down at last. His program ended up crumpled in his hands, his eyes still on the stage but his mind far away, hoping Sherlock hadn't left yet and wondering just what he'd say when John turned back up at his door, seeking a second chance.

It felt like hours or seconds before Julie was tugging him upwards and the lights in the house were coming back on, people rising to cheer on the dancers. Julie stood up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "Backstage is through that corridor, third door on the right."

"Thank you," he said, surprised, but then, Julie did tend to have an eerie knack for these things.

Bill caught him by the arm. "Don't do anything stupid, mate." His eyebrows were right up near his orange hairline, blue eyes even lighter with concern, but he gave John's hand a good shake and pushed him out the aisle.

John dodged the exiting patrons, slipping between chattery old women and young men looking uncomfortable in suits alike, squeezing out apologies as he went. It seemed half of London had come for the show.

The other half, it seemed, were in it. Even in the corridor Julie had pointed out, the girls from the lower ballet school were gathered in the hallway, white tutus like snowdrifts as John struggled through to the door just in his sights, and hundreds of others in clouds of stage make-up were heading out in the opposite direction, glaring at John as he moved against the natural stream of people. But then, those were dancers for you.

He had finally laid his hands on the door, grating out a sigh of relief, when it jerked away under his hands.

"Well, that's a funny coincidence if I ever saw one."

Serious face, warm eyes, burnished silver hair anxiously mussed. He looked familiar, but… "Greg, Greg Lestrade," the man added, offering John a hand and tugging him inside the door. "My daughter dances in your class."

"Right, sorry, sorry, nice to, er, see you again."

Lestrade snorted, not even making an effort to sound half-convinced as he guided John easily through the crowds still moving past them. "I actually know you better through my, um, client."

"Sherlock?" John felt something in his stomach do a funny little leap, and he swallowed around it.

Greg nodded before shooting him an exasperated look. "He's currently brooding because you broke his heart, or something."

"I'm assuming you want me to fix that," John said, with little humor. He and Greg sidestepped a pair of giggling children with their mouse-heads still teetering on their shoulders.

Greg spared them a quick grin, then darted his eyes to John before looking quickly away. He sighed. "I'm actually assuming that's why you're here in the first place. But yes, if it makes you feel better."

John laughed, but before he could say anything, Greg stopped him, pulling over to the side. His face had gone serious, but still warm and just a bit... sad. John didn't even have time be surprised before Greg was saying, his voice low and clear, "You are Sherlock's last chance. But he believes you can do it. And, Mr. Watson, all he needs… all he needs is someone who believes he can do it, too."

John swallowed again, tamping down on the sudden tightness that had replaced the flips in his belly. But he nodded, looking Lestrade directly in the eye as he replied, strong and gentle all at once, "I do."

* * *

As one of the last performances of the season, everyone was eager to get out and snatch whatever little breaks they could before the holidays truly began. Sherlock didn't have to wait long for the dressing rooms to empty. But by then, he was slipping into his seat, finally giving in to the trembling of his legs. Bloodshot eyes, matted hair, paler still beneath his makeup. The thought slipped into his mind that he might have needed more sleep. And perhaps he should have eaten.

All thoughts, though, were interrupted with the knock on the door.

"Go away," Sherlock groaned, allowing his head to fall into his hands.

"Someone's here to see you," came Greg's voice. Sherlock didn't bother getting up.

"Well done, they've seen me. Now show whomever someone may be out."

A new voice: "This is going better than expected."

Sherlock froze. Then his head jerked upwards again to find eyes locked on his own, eyes that were very blue and very deep and very much like an ocean, and Sherlock wondered if he might have fallen in, because all of a sudden it was very difficult to breathe.

"What where you expecting?" The words must have slipped out on a rush of water, for Sherlock certainly hadn't willed them. The cracked as they met the air, and John winced in sympathy. With memory.

Sherlock saw John dart his eyes over to Greg, who gave him a little nod before showing himself out. When the door had closed, John took one small, slow step forward, at the same time as he inhaled one heavy breath. _Heavy, heavy with what, with meaning, import, weighted by sentiment or..._

"You told me to think about it."

Sherlock's hands drummed a flurrying rhythm on the table. "Think about what? Hadn't you already decided?" He punctuated the last words with a rap of his knuckles on the tabletop, then clenched his hands into fists in his lap, dropping his eyes from John's steady gaze when it became too much to bear.

Looking into something bottomless was a terror. John's eyes were just those terrible seas. How deeply it went, and deeper still as John looked at him with something upwelled soft and light. "I made a mistake."

Sherlock said nothing. In the blurry corners of his peripheral vision, John's reflection started closer.

Crossing the room on soft feet, he said in a voice just as quiet, "Your performance tonight..."

"Strained. Inelegant. I was too conscious of the -"

"No, no, it wasn't. Sherlock, your dancing..." he sighed impatiently, almost at himself, stopping just beside Sherlock's chair and crossing his arms. "Your dancing," he tried again, more slowly, "reminds me of why I ever chose to do this in the first place."

That pulled a snort from Sherlock. "Oh, John Watson," he laughed softly. "Have you no idea - "

He'd looked up, catching John staring straight back.

"I was wrong," John said finally. "And I don't want anything more to regret."

Sherlock rose gradually, glacially. When he at last turned around, he nearly towered over John. But this was when those eyes wavered back upwards, open and raw, but something there. Undefined. Inexplicable.

John was so much bigger than he seemed.

"I'm not saying... Look, I still have. I have lots, some, reservations. Fears. I'm still old and injured and -"

"John," Sherlock growled.

"Right, sorry." He took a deep breath. "I'd like to try this thing. With you. If you still want to do it with me."

Sherlock stepped closer. "Could be dangerous," he murmured, eyes fast on John's face. One last chance for John, to either defend or prove that what he felt.

"Dancing? Dangerous?" There was a thin note of skepticism in his voice.

"No." Sherlock's lips quirked upwards. "Dancing _with_ Sherlock Holmes. That's dangerous."

And then a smile bloomed across John's face, spreading beautiful and infectious into the wrinkles around his eyes and the dawning light inside them. "So I've been told." But he held fast.

Sherlock felt something unidentifiable surge within him at the sight. What it was, he had no idea, and wasn't that a first - but he was looking forward to finding out just what it was, and finding it out with John at his side.

He matched John's grin, toothy and sharp and alive, as the excitement began to take root. "Then let's get started."


	5. Chapter 5

_Sunday, December 13th_

* * *

The next morning, John made the trip to the practice space Sherlock had found.

"It's brilliant," Sherlock had said, a manic energy to his movements, as they'd left the opera house that night. "We can get started immediately, and I don't _think_ the roof is going to cave in any time soon."

"How reassuring," John had said dryly.

Now John exited the cab at Baker Street to see Sherlock already leaning against the rusty door to a warehouse, its white paint chipping and peeling away from the walls in papery strips. John looked up at the windows with no small amount of skepticism, and they peered back down at him like suspicious, milky eyes.

"Prime spot," he said as he approached. Sherlock's eyes, grey with morning, flitted upwards from his mobile. "But, um - old, is it?"

Sherlock sighed around a smile, pocketing the phone. "Nothing a good coat of paint wouldn't fix. I assure you it's perfectly sound." His gaze dropped, surveying John before rising back upwards, and he tilted his head towards the building. "Shall we...?"

"After you," John said, gesturing Sherlock in ahead of him. Sherlock's shoulder pushed in, and he disappeared into the darkness.

Except, following Sherlock in, it wasn't really that dark at all. After the initial cloakroom, the door yawned into a wide space, the windows at the back flooding it with clear light all the way from its grey floors to the vaulted ceilings above. Unfinished, the structure and support beams were splayed uncovered above their heads, dull metallic light fixtures dangling from their heavy middles.

John stepped quietly, hands folded, throughout the room, allowing the wash of thin light to fall over his face. He rocked back on his heels, feeling the give beneath his feet. Turning, he spotted Sherlock still fiddling with the light switch.

"It has a nice dance floor," he said, almost a question. His voice fell back to him in a lofty echo. "Barre, too."

Sherlock shrugged. "Used to be a studio; landlady was willing to rent it out. Owes me a favor." He straightened, still frowning at the switch. "We'll have to get the electricity checked."

"Heating seems fine, I think the lights are just burned out. No matter, we just won't practice at night." John shuffled out of his jacket, laying it over the barre that ran along yellowing walls.

Turning around, he caught Sherlock's glare. "What?" John asked. He folded his arms, a direct opposition to the hands Sherlock had planted on his hips.

"Then when do you propose we practice?"

"Just one of the things we'll have to work out, I suppose."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I have to fulfill my _oaths_ to the National," he said, an acerbic bite to his voice letting John know just how he felt about all that. "I'm released from classes and rehearsals and other such nonsense for nights, and only free Thursdays and Sundays."

"I have my teaching job Thursdays," John pointed out, pulling another grimace from Sherlock.

"Sunday it is, then," he droned.

"No way we'll be ready in time."

"After this week, we do have all of Christmas break free, at least."

"But what about after that? A week isn't near enough, either." John was already shaking his head. Heads had gone dizzy by the time most were ready for auditions, but it was the price of knowing, without knowing, what came next - the instinctual thrust and dive into each motion that made it all worthwhile. It was time that etched action into thought.

Sherlock was similarly hunched and frowning as he pulled on his flats, but silent. And John was beginning to see his point. Maybe it was just another of the dangers to this dance.

He sighed, and sat down to shove at his own shoes. "Let's just practice. I'll call the repair men tonight, and we'll work out the rest as it comes."

Though hesitant, Sherlock's shoulders seemed to loosen, and he nodded.

They were still more relaxed as they settled into stretching together, quiet companionship arcing between them in their shared breaths, the steadied exhalations that came with each new pose. Slowly, John could sense them falling deeper into symmetry, noting as they began to mirror one another with each new motion. Perhaps… perhaps dancing with Sherlock wouldn't be that different after all.

He noted, too, as the minutes ticked by, that they were falling deeper still into that quiet place within themselves, unnamed but known so very, very well to all who chose this life. It began with a heart like a drumbeat, and the music never left.

Eventually, Sherlock was nodding again, helping pull John to his feet, and the pair of them struck out to the barre for the same warm-up they'd done together at Kitty's. Then, to the center of the floor.

For a moment, they stood, staring at one another. Then John burst into giggles. Sherlock looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What?"

"I'm sorry," John said between flurried bits of laughter. "It's just... this is so ridiculous. I don't... I don't even know where to begin."

Sherlock was regarding him with something more of understanding in the serious lines of his face. He stepped back, even the subtle shift of weight monumental, and John could feel his body orienting itself to fill that space.

"We start with the music," Sherlock said simply. He stepped back completely, to the place where his phone sat hooked up to speakers that John realized he must have already planted there. The knowledge tugged at something in his chest, made him think - how long had Sherlock been waiting for this? For a partner willing enough to just give him this chance? To fill that space?

Sherlock was looking expectant. John steadied his stance, his focus determined on Sherlock's face, and he gave a single nod.

John heard the phone click as Sherlock cycled to his solo piece.

Three notes in slow succession. A build. Some sleeping drama halved with mystery as the music hurried itself along, before lifting as another instrument joined in, a round with the first. The two parts weaving in and out of one another like partners, like threads in a tapestry, one delicate and flighty while the other crept along the base of the imagination.

And then another, and another, a full orchestra slipping in amongst each other like the pages in a book begging to be read, and if their words were different they all still joined to create the one, central story.

And always that one, central theme wending throughout it all, as the song continued to crescendo and grow and crest until -

John locked eyes with Sherlock, finding himself suddenly breathless. Sherlock's eyes were flint-bright as they held fast to his own through the mighty crash of the end.

"Wow," John managed.

"I know," Sherlock replied, a gratified smile lighting his face. "Bach's _Little Fugue in G Minor_."

"'Little?'" His ears were still ringing.

"The other's longer," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. "Now -"

"You've started notation, yes?"

Sherlock looked taken aback. "Yes," he said, shaking it off, "as I was about to say."

"You forget I've been around the block on this audition business, too," John reminded.

Sherlock tilted his head, looking curious. "I thought most of Swing was making it up as you went along. And I didn't expect you to have retained your ballet knowledge, that was ages ago."

John coughed, grimacing. "Yes, be impressed that a dinosaur such as myself could -"

"You know that isn't what I meant," Sherlock interrupted, but his voice was soft.

John's eyes fell away. "Well," he said at last, when the silence had begun to stretch, "you're wrong about Swing as well. There are lots of different kinds. Sometimes we make it up, but we do occasionally have to choreograph."

"Is this competition choreographed?"

"Well, no," John began, only to be interrupted again.

"Then it's irrelevant. After this competition, and my audition, you'll be able to live comfortably and I'll be in Paris."

John opened his mouth, closed it again. Closed his eyes. "Fine, you know what, whatever. I'll have enough on my hands attempting to teach you _everything there is to bloody know about swing_ without teaching you the basics of choreography on top of it."

Sherlock quirked a grin. "That's the spirit. Now, it starts with me alone on stage…"

Sherlock spent a good hour walking him through the movements he'd envisioned, step by step. John sat on the floor, arms propped behind him, and watched with rapt attention. Every so often he'd interject, calling out moments when things didn't make sense. Or, more often than not, when Sherlock had conjured up some horrifically impossible move that John had to quickly throw right out or risk ending up in a hospital bed next to Clara at the hands of Sherlock's mad experimentation.

"What do you mean you _can't_?" Sherlock said, throwing him a glare over his shoulder. Or more _around_ his shoulder, as he was currently contorted so far back and sideways John was having a hard time believing he was still in one piece.

John got to his feet, wincing with the reproachful throb of his shoulder. He stepped forward and leaned down, craning his neck to put it on level with Sherlock's annoyed gaze. "I mean," he said, with a pointed nudge at Sherlock's side, "that there's no way I possibly can." He caught Sherlock around his ribs just as he began to topple over, and hoisted him back to his feet, arms still locked tight behind his back.

Sherlock leaned away slightly to look him more directly in the eye. Glare at him, more like. "If no one happens to run on stage and _push us_ we can stay balanced just fine."

"Trembling with fatigue, my aches and pains, your great bloody height – I'd prefer not to risk it." Still pressed chest to chest, he refused to back away lest Sherlock see it as him surrendering the issue. Thinking quickly, he instead pushed at Sherlock's arms, raising them above his head like the last time they'd danced at Kitty's.

"Ah-ah, keep those hands up," he said, turning Sherlock away.

"It's one of the great climactic moments," Sherlock pouted, nevertheless allowing himself to be positioned under John's careful hands. "We have to do something different and unique each time to catch their attention."

John shrugged, lips downturned. "I disagree. Well, sort of. Now, legs together, first position. This is right after that quiet bit, right?"

Sherlock heaved a breath and nodded. "Where we separate, yes."

"Well, then, what if we came together to do a partner thing there instead? Then follow it with the chase for the final climax?"

John could feel the sudden tension in Sherlock's body like an electrical charge, as all his focus turned inwards and to John. "Show me," he said in a voice thick with intrigue, his hands coming down for a moment to rest, feather-light, over where John's own were still clasped at the lowest of Sherlock's ribs.

John fluttered his fingers under Sherlock's, pausing, and after another second Sherlock's arms returned to their raised position, his body going loose once again. He could feel the resistance as it dropped from his frame and Sherlock gave himself up to be moved.

John swallowed at the trust it took.

Afraid to scare it off, he whispered as lowly as he could, "Music." Sherlock fumbled the remote out of his pocket and clicked to the track again before throwing it off to the side.

They stood, half-moving through the parts they'd already worked but mostly remaining still, feeling the give of the music and the motions as they wound through memory and movement.

"_Fouetté_ here," Sherlock murmured, head tilting back to John's ear. The images rose and disappeared in John's mind with the ebb and flow of the song.

"And the fish," John said, feeling it in the subtle change of his grip.

Sherlock was strangely breathless. "My turns, with the bass line."

The music changed, coming to the softer moment, and Sherlock tensed, just a second, before again giving in to John. John put his mouth to Sherlock's ear. "Follow me."

One of his feet nudged Sherlock's out into a _tendu_, followed with John lowering him into the dip; he returned, twisted, and almost instinctually Sherlock's right leg came up in an extension that John caught soft in his hand without a moment's hesitation. Together they turned and it fell and Sherlock twisted and their eyes locked - and then John was grasping at his slender hips as Sherlock propelled himself into the lift.

John's arms very nearly shook above his head, but they kept Sherlock steady, steady as he moved through the graceful contortions he'd moments ago suggested to John – this time on his own, but transformed into something distant and untouchable as John turned in dizzying circles beneath him.

Barely more than five seconds and he was on his feet again in front of John, breathing surprisingly hard for as fit as he was.

"Yes," he said, once he'd caught his breath. His hands slid up John's arms where they squeezed, just once, and all the while his eyes stayed immovable on John's. "Yes, that."

John's breath shuddered from his lungs. "Okay. Glad, um. Glad you liked it."

"We'll have to go immediately into the turns after that."

"Yes."

"Then the really dramatic dip we practiced before, I'll touch the floor."

"Yeah."

"And the chase."

"Mhmm."

"And then we'll come together again. The final, leaping lift for that last climax."

"Ye- what?"

Sherlock spun away, his mind likely whirring as quickly as his feet as he paced about the floor. John shook himself, his own mind still a bit hazy and struggling to catch up. That had been… and for a minute he'd almost been sure…

But Sherlock was still speaking, now at the far diagonal of the room. "I'll run to you. Jump. You'll catch me."

"A bit Dirty Dancing, isn't it?"

Sherlock scowled. "I don't think there's anything particularly dirty about it."

John's mind, which had slowly been grinding to life, juddered back to a halt. "Are you serious?"

"About your appalling taste in films, or -"

"No, the _leap_, Sherlock." Even through his exasperation, something nervous twisted in his gut.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted themselves together on his forehead. "Why shouldn't I be? It's standard procedure, both for ballet motions, and for any choreographed piece's biggest moment to have its biggest movement."

"I mean…" John could feel his shoulders deflating, the brief high of moments before crushed in the wake of the disappointment he was sure to give Sherlock. "It's just. My shoulder."

"You just lifted me for six whole seconds, with hardly noticeable strain. Would it absolutely kill you to –"

"It's not the same," John snapped. "You can't risk the biggest moment of this piece on me and my - my injury."

Sherlock stopped. Just stopped, eyeing him as he stood so, so still, and John very suddenly felt like a particularly revolting specimen on a scientist's microscope. He dropped his gaze, looking away and feeling sick.

"You should know. You've been at this long enough. And now Clara -" John squeezed his eyes shut. He realized his fingers were shaking.

And then Sherlock said, quietly, "I'm not taking any risks with you, John. If anything, I'm asking you to take a risk on me."

John's teeth were grinding themselves raw. "You still can't," he said after a while, when his jaw had unclenched, "ask me to do something that could - will - cost you everything."

Sherlock looked about to reply, but John gave a sharp jerk of his head. "No, think about it. If I miss a catch, if I drop you, even if it's clearly my fault it will reflect very badly on you. And that's best-case scenario. I could even. I could even hurt you if I mangled it up," John finished, and shook his head, more resolute than he'd ever felt. "Don't tell me that injury isn't what we fear the most, not when this is everything that matters to you.

He didn't remember everything about the accident. What he did remember was lying on the wooden floor with faces peering down at him. Some worried, some concerned, almost all of them smug and relieved: _at least it wasn't me._ That was ballet, for you. Throw your everything into this one thing and have it all betray you, be lying there _unmoving_ in your broken bones and endings when that was the exact opposite of everything you'd worked to be -

John looked up. "No, Sherlock. I'll do almost anything else. But no running leaps." _Please_.

Like molten ice, Sherlock's eyes flashed through burning blues and depthless silvers before he turned, his back to John, and said in a voice barely above a whisper, "Fine. No running leaps."

John felt bile at the back of his tongue, bitter in the wake of Sherlock's disappointment. Looking at the defeated line of Sherlock's spine, he was reminded of why he'd initially refused this offer, why he could never have hoped to –

"John, are you listening? We'll have to come up with something new for the big moment, then, I was thinking a series of those turns the New York academy used in their last show." Sherlock turned back around, his toes pointed in a parody of one of those turns. "Are you paying any attention?"

It was John's turn to feel taken aback. "Sherlock," he said, hands clasped in front of him. He took a deep breath. "You know that if you're having any, any second thoughts, you can always –"

Sherlock's eyes were boggling out of his head. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"I just –"

"John," Sherlock said impatiently, stalking back over to him. "We're on a very tight schedule, and I will not have you wallowing in self-pity when I feel I've made it clear you're." He stopped. Swallowed.

"'I'm?'" John prompted.

Sherlock was squinting out the windows, where the sun had struggled through after all. "It doesn't matter."

John waited.

Sherlock sighed, somewhere between impatient and embarrassed. "I say it in every moment we dance, John, do I really have to say it aloud?"

John blinked, his head tilting sideways as he looked up into Sherlock's face, which was still turned firmly away.

"I'd like," he said at last, after he'd spent a good minute reading the taut lines drawn at Sherlock's lips, feeling a similar tightness in his chest, "to try those New York turns."

A relief arced between them, kin and kind, and they shared a smile that was almost as honest as what happened in any of those times they were moving in tandem on a cool wooden floor.

"I think it starts like this," Sherlock instructed, and John settled in to be taught, as the last of his fears unwound themselves from his heart – hopefully for good. It beat freely, as they cycled through the song again, again, again.

* * *

It was hours yet before Sherlock called time. Checking his watch, John's eyes nearly fell out of his head, and his stomach gave an agonized rumble. "Christ, it's half-past one. I'll collapse if we don't at least go for some takeaway."

"Which is why I called a break," Sherlock explained, already zipping up his bag. John rolled his eyes, but he'd have been out of here hours ago if he hadn't already gotten used to Sherlock's bossy superiority.

_Christ_. Almost six hours. Could have been six years, for all John knew. His eyes paused over the man stretching out a crick in his back, sweaty, disheveled mop trembling with the effort as his spine shaped itself to a slender crescent. With the way they'd begun to respond to each other, it might as well have been those long, six years, when two weeks ago, he hadn't even known who Sherlock was.

And now here they were. Inextricably linked. Their futures tied, one to the other, as concretely as if Sherlock had wrapped him in chains.

"Chinese?" John asked, shaking off the shivers before he got too broody. There'd been enough of that, he thought privately, for today.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled again.

"Oh, god, don't tell me you're one of those weight-obsessed danseurs who eats a salad for every meal."

"It's very important to stay healthy," Sherlock sniffed. "In our line of work, appearance means far more than it probably should."

"Tell me about it. No, not literally," John said quickly, stopping what was likely to be a heated rant about the flaws of the industry, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Are you sure you couldn't go for a bit of lo mein? Or maybe some dim sum?"

He looked hesitant, and John pressed his luck. "Come on," he wheedled. He could almost taste the fried perfection of it, oily noodles basking in their spicy sauces, the sharp, vegetable tang of a good snow-peas-and-rice.

"You look as if you're about to pass out." Sherlock, without John realizing it, had gotten to his feet and was peering at him with concern that edged steadily closer to alarm.

"Thoughts of a nice Chinese can do that. Better take me away to a takeaway," John tried, pleased when Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.

"Terrible, John, absolutely terrible."

"But will you?" They pulled their coats off the barre, heading towards the exit.

"You don't deserve it after that."

"But…?" John pressed, the smile on his own lips mirrored in the one creeping across Sherlock's.

"But it does sound frightfully good right now," Sherlock admitted, and John gave rise to the surge of laughter bubbling in his throat. "I know this place – well, know the owner…"

"Don't you always?" John mumbled, and they swung out into the street, Sherlock's pleased laughter edging out behind them as the door clicked shut.

* * *

They brought their food back to the studio, settling with their backs to the wall under the barre as they passed trays back and forth, resting in easy silence. It was, Sherlock thought, far removed from the first awkward, stilted dinner they'd shared at Angelo's. He could feel the warmth seeping over from John's shoulder to his own.

He'd begun to appreciate, in their dancing, John's solidity. It was a good quality in a partner, and it was... nice, equally nice, that this fact about John didn't change even as they were only squabbling over who got the last piece of beef.

John let out a satisfied groan as he laid aside the last of his boxes. He patted his stomach, and looked happily to Sherlock.

Sherlock had to look away under the full force of that gaze, choosing instead to carefully root around for another of those snow peas John had so recommended. But John's eyes were still resting on him, and, chewing slowly, he waited for John to gather the courage to say whatever it was he'd been trying to hold back for hours now.

"You know," he said at last, and Sherlock braced himself. "You're a really good dancer."

"Yes." He'd been expecting something a little more damaging than that. "But?"

"How did you know there'd be a 'but?'"

"There's always a 'but,'" he sighed, and put his finished carton inside John's. "So, what is yours?"

John raised his eyes to Sherlock's. "It's not really a 'but', actually. A question. Something a friend pointed out to me..."

"Are you going to ask or not? You don't seem a man to dally, and I'm not one whose feelings are easily hurt."

"Good thing, too," John answered, and then almost visibly steeled himself. "Why do you almost never dance with anyone else? Why do you not - why is it so hard for you to find partners?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking up at the rafters over their heads, where the sun was steadily making its way across the sky and casting patterns of light down to the floor below. "People are idiots." That was easier than he'd expected.

John was silent. "And I'm not?" he asked.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from snorting. "You are," he said, and his head lolled back along the wall to look at John, who was waiting quietly, face unreadable. Sherlock smiled, soft. "But less than most."

"Hmm." In the silence that followed, John's thinking was loud. But it quieted with his decision, as he shifted against Sherlock's side and mumbled, "Thanks, I think."

Sherlock quirked a grin under his closed his eyes. With food resting heavy and warm in his belly - a feeling he wasn't at all used to, and he still wasn't sure if the Chinese was out to make him sick in the end - he was starting to relax. It was true it took far too much energy to digest when there was still so much else to do, he realized grudgingly, and tried to drag himself out of the sudden sleepiness.

"We should take a break from ballet." His fingers flared down to his toes in a languorous stretch. "Work some swing instead."

John was similarly warm and heavy against him. He hadn't realized how close he'd gotten. It wasn't like him to miss things like that, he thought with a small frisson of irritation. He tried, more resolutely now, to shake himself awake.

But John was still remarkably placid. "I am in no mood to do something as energetic as swing, Sherlock, and I think you're just going to have to deal with it."

Sherlock snapped around to look at him, affronted. "We're on a -"

"Schedule, yes, I know," John yawned. "It's nothing ten lost minutes will disrupt."

Sherlock was near paralyzed with confusion - another feeling he had no idea how to combat. Apparently John was good at rousing these in him.

"What do you propose we do with those ten minutes?" he asked, voice terse. He drummed his fingers impatiently along the floor, stopping only when John lifted a pointed eyelid to glare down at them. "You can't fall _asleep_," he said in exasperation, and with another groan John was pushing himself up from a slouch.

"Fine, then we'll just talk."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Talk?"

"Yes. That thing where you move your mouth and words come out."

"We've _been_ talking." Sherlock chose to ignore the sarcasm.

"No, but I mean," John broke off, darting a much closer look at Sherlock than he was used to receiving, "about other things… though I'm starting to suspect - you do actually do things other than dance, right?"

Sherlock didn't answer, choosing this time to crumple up his napkin and toss it inside the box, shoving it all off to the side. But when he turned back, John was still looking at him with eyes gone soft. Unexpectedly, John's knee knocked into his own. Sherlock looked down sharply.

"Look at your feet," John murmured. Sherlock's eyes followed his line of sight. "Poor things."

Sherlock drew his legs up, feeling exposed. Callouses, a few purpling-black nails, bone and muscle wrapped in healed-over wounds wrapped in thick, dead skin - tools of the trade. He'd ceased to be surprised by it. Didn't John remember that it was simply the life they led?

But John was just shaking his head. "I just mean that they, yours especially, deserve a break every once in a while."

"No," Sherlock said at last. "I mean, yes, of course I do other things. I have a fondness for good crime fiction and a casual interest in apiology. But everything else is second to dance, because dance is… everything. And I have to keep doing it or they won't let me keep doing it, do you see?"

He wished John would look somewhere else. Those eyes were too deep, too bright, and now he was opening his mouth, probably to laugh. But he just said, "Apiology, really?"

It was Sherlock who laughed instead, short and surprised. "Yes, actually," he admitted. "My grandfather used to keep bees, out in the country. I liked to play among the hives. My brother was afraid of them and wouldn't come after me there."

John smiled, tilting his head. "You have a brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately. He's older than I am and a disgustingly wealthy patron of the arts - he operates under the delusion this gives him the right to control every aspect of my dancing career."

"I have an older sister," John said sympathetically, "so I know what you mean. Sorry about yours. Sounds like a right bastard."

Sherlock made a noise of agreement. "Kidnapped Lestrade and interrogated him in a warehouse when I decided to enlist him as my teacher. It wasn't the first time either," he mused. He really had to figure out a way to keep his brother's fat fingers off the people he chose.

Next to him John had gone stock-still, and when Sherlock looked over his face was a fighting mix between green and pale, pale white. "John - are you alright?" He knew the Chinese had been a terrible idea.

"Fine, just…" John swallowed as if it took all his effort. "I think I've met your brother, actually."

Where John had gone rigid, Sherlock's limbs went loose in disbelief and defeat. "Don't tell me he -"

"Yep," John nodded, still staring off into the distance. "Oh, yes, he did." Sherlock could feel his blood beginning to boil, but then John surprised him yet again by laughing.

"Why are you laughing? Why aren't you furious?" He was genuinely confused. After it had happened to Lestrade, he'd been informed that kidnapping was 'just not on, you incredible family of twats.'

"I actually think I might shake his hand if I meet him again."

No, definitely, _definitely_ something in the takeaway after all.

"He's the reason I decided - well, not the reason, but he got me to thinking on all I was refusing by refusing you."

Sherlock opened his mouth. Closed it. "Really?" he tried again.

John nodded in earnest. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was quiet. "I wanted to apologize for that. I was, and I am… well, you're you, and I'm me, and I mean, just look at you, christ. You can't blame me for thinking - am I making any sense at all?"

"No," Sherlock said honestly. He still couldn't think of a valid reason for John to have refused him, but he was sure John had come up with many stupid ones. But at this point, it didn't matter. John was here. John was dancing with him. And that was enough.

"Figures," John sighed, but he didn't sound too particularly upset. They lapsed into silence again. Outside, the London traffic hummed, a constant rhythm unknown to any music. This city breathed like a living thing. It pulsed with its own heartbeat.

Next to him, John's breath hissed out in another deep sigh. "That was talking. Sort of. And that was nice, Sherlock. But I'm starting to understand what you mean."

"Oh?" John was getting to his feet, dusting off his hands, pulling Sherlock up beside him. The smile John blazed up at him was wide and unguarded.

"We speak so much better in dance."

Chuckling, he led Sherlock back out to the floor.

* * *

_**extension** - literal extension of the leg at long, straight angles  
_


	6. Chapter 6

_Tuesday, December 22nd_

* * *

"I am sending you the bill for inconveniences to my mental health, or you could just bloody well count to eight."

Sherlock felt vaguely insulted. "I am counting to eight, but that, that _move_ you're doing isn't coming right on the downbeat," he protested, drawing himself up to his full height. He'd noticed that it was often enough to make John either back down or get angrier than ever, and hoped for the former.

This was, of course, the latter.

Refusing to back down, John stepped into his space, curling his hands in Sherlock's and spreading them wide in their regular, loose-limbed hold. "Count," he said through gritted teeth, the steel in his eyes hard and bright and leaving no room for contradiction.

Sherlock couldn't fight it for long. In retaliation, he blew out a huffy breath in John's face. But he also did as asked, mouth curving in a sulk around the words. "One, two, three, four," he began, in the rhythm they'd been working all afternoon, and for the past week as it was.

Between Sherlock's rehearsals for his final Nutcracker performances and John's classes, the moments they'd snatched to work together had been few and precious, even once the lights were back. The regular hustle and bustle of the holidays was barreling toward them, John apparently needing to visit his family and Sherlock doing his best to avoid his, but so too was the New Year - and not long after that were their performances.

The ballet piece was almost entirely choreographed, but that wasn't the same as needing to dance it and seeing if it actually worked when it was put together. Much could still be altered in the meantime. And the swing - starting from scratch as he was, there was still an incredible amount to learn, and this was even before the instinctive skill and communication necessary for the freestyle. He and John had a natural chemistry, it was certain - he felt it in almost every movement, a gratifying thrill along each and every one of his neurons, sparking them into twin motion - but that alone wouldn't be enough.

Sherlock knew, logically, that there was still much time remaining. But he especially couldn't stop the panic, panic and frustration that grew taut in his limbs, whenever he realized he just wasn't _getting it_. And for a whole afternoon he hadn't been getting it, and for him not to get something for a moment was worrisome enough as it was. But this?

Sherlock tore his hands away, throwing them up in a fit when his body refused to follow the simple commands John was issuing with his own body. Where they were often so normally, so completely in synch, something was – and continued to go – wrong.

"If I'd been drugged and told to come up with a new style it would make more sense," he complained aloud, stalking away. Bright, cheery sun was filtering through the ceiling rafters, and Sherlock hated it. It was winter, for godsakes. It should have been cold and harsh and hard, just like this _stupid_ dance. "What do you even see in this ridiculous style of yours? There's no –"

"Hey," John warned, but Sherlock blazed foolishly on.

" - beauty or sensuality or grace. It's just tossing me around and kicking at random intervals and –"

"_Hey!"_ Now that caught his attention. Sherlock went from blazing down the war path to wanting to crawl with apology in less than two seconds, so severe and unexpected was John's tone. When Sherlock snapped back around to look at him in surprise, it was the same - it seemed the fight had gone from his body only to find itself again in John's.

He swallowed, but said nothing, staring John down from across the dance floor.

"Remember," John said, in a voice so spine-tinglingly, dreadfully soft it ached to hear, "You were the one who asked to do this, not me."

_I begin to regret it_, Sherlock thought, but was smart enough not to say, because it wasn't even half true.

Not with this, and not with John.

Instead, thinking carefully, he said, "Remind me why."

He could almost feel John bristle, even from feet away. "I don't know – "

"No, John," he sighed, and this little unspoken thing between them went tight with the weight that threatened to snap it. "You."

He watched the confusion, then the understanding, flash in ripples through John's eyes, which immediately dropped to the floor. Sherlock's shoulders slumped with relief as John released him from that dark gaze. John set his shoulders back and walked softly, deftly to the stereo system.

A slow jazz rhythm, far from what Sherlock's research had suggested was anything close to typical swing dance, began to thrum.

"I started ballet. Then went ballroom," John said, almost a non-sequitur, swaying slightly to the music as he walked. His shoulders shifted with each beat, each step forward - a slow and steady prowl that echoed in tingles along Sherlock's spine, almost encouraging him backwards.

As John's steps unfolded, so did his words, almost a thoughtless meander as they both crept closer and closer toward where Sherlock stood, entranced by this sudden and unexpected display. "But swing is different, you know? Eight count, not six. Faster, lighter, braver -"

Something in the music struck itself into silence. John, sensing it, tensed - and Sherlock, sensing that, went absolutely rigid.

An explosion: brassy trumpets and low, thrumming bass beats rang out in time, singing in Sherlock's ears and shocking him. But it was not nearly as the explosion that was John. John, a man, became color and movement and song - from that coiled tension which Sherlock recognized now to be a complete and total readiness, John rippled into a leap. His arms stretched boundlessly for the heavens, as one leg kicked out before him and another curled beneath. His body was poised like an exclamation point, and from there the mere _shout _of it only continued.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, supple and soft, he was off again, whirling in a coordinated spin. From this tightness of being, he expanded, and Sherlock had been so caught up in watching him he neglected to recognize how close he had actually been coming. But there was no ignoring it now: As John came out of the spin, he went down on one knee before Sherlock, his head and torso thrown back and his arms open wide in a parody of utter surrender.

Sherlock wanted to go to his knees in front of him. He wanted to applaud. He did nothing but stare.

John, breathing heavily, opened his eyes. "You can do it,"he said between pants, but if the delivery was off then the cobalt that shone up at him was saying more than enough. Those eyes said, _I believe in you_.

Sherlock swallowed. "I'd like to try again," he rasped, and the smile that grew across John's face was bright, but not like the explosion of before - it grew slowly, creeping across his lips. It bloomed.

"Okay," he said, regaining his breath. "Okay." Sherlock gripped his arm and pulled him to standing, flush against each other.

"Okay," Sherlock repeated, which Sherlock reflected was odd, because he never repeated things if he could help it. He'd, he'd forgotten, John had scrambled things in his brain and made him forget and now John was standing too close and it was making it hard to think and hard to breathe, every time he inhaled he could feel the slide of cotton soft, durable, John -

"Are you?" John asked, almost laughing, just this side of heady-dizzy-_giddy,_ but there was something in his face that was entirely serious.

Sherlock, speechless, just shook his head, his fingers like vices on John's arm, his side.

John's tongue peeked out to wet his lips. "No, or you don't know?"

"Can we just dance?" Sherlock pleaded, but the impatience he'd been going for fell short, sounding out as a whispered uncertainty as the words fell from his mouth.

"Better than speaking," John agreed kindly.

"Yes," he said, and gave a vigorous nod.

"Alright," he said. "Then let's just go through a couple of the moves you know again. We can work back up to where we got stuck. Alright?" he said again.

More repetition. But it wasn't irritating. It was kind. "Alright," he echoed, relieved.

John laid a hand against Sherlock's ribs, and Sherlock gripped his arm. Their other hands came up with fingers clasped. John's hands felt so small around his own. "No, lower," John instructed, bringing their hands down with a strength that, as each day passed, surprised him less and less.

They stood squarely apart. "Count," John said, and this time, Sherlock did. Getting into the rhythm, Sherlock and John began to sway side to side. At John's cue they both stepped out and back, a quick step-ball-change motion that pushed Sherlock immediately into the twist beneath John's raised arm.

"I still think," he said as he returned to position, "that'd it be smarter for you to do the turn, since you're so sho-"

"Quiet, you," John said, without breaking step in the same easy side to side. But he looked to be thinking hard, his lips set and his eyes as dancingly bright as his feet. "Again."

This time they swung out, and Sherlock did the turn, but John kept them moving so that their steps carried them to face different directions, adding a new dynamic to what could have been a boring, stationary set. Sherlock was beginning to see how the little additions of each nuanced movement were bringing ever more to the table, burgeoning from small and uninspired to what John had said - something brave, and bold.

Now John turned beneath Sherlock's arm, and at last they came back to their closer holds.

"The switch," John murmured, turning into Sherlock's side while Sherlock kept his arms wide and open. Their hands lost contact briefly as John rotated, but just as soon John's fingers were sliding back into his grasp.

"And now your -"

"Yes," Sherlock said, anticipating. They put their hands palm to palm and Sherlock whirled beneath their hands, John twisting him back around again in another spin. Taking hold of one another again, Sherlock asked, "Charleston?" just as John looped his arms around Sherlock in a final spin to pin them together, John's chest to the long line of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock shifted slightly to the side, and they did the same step-ball-change as before, John's arm now around Sherlock's back and their other hands still gripped tight before them. John's light breath in his ear, he could sense it, feel the shift beside him and the hitch in that even rhythm, as they moved together into the Charleston, arms coming up unexpected and loud and magnificent with their feet.

They said nothing more as they did it again, the both of them this time kicking out wide both forward and behind, throwing more bombast into the step.

As his arms came back around, Sherlock found John taking hold of both of them. He was counting furiously in his head, knowing he'd missed this the last time, but there was a sudden serenity that overcame him, looking down at the steady, assured hands of his partner against the pale lines of his own. A sudden calm, deep and still as the ocean Sherlock had so feared drowning in before.

John twisted him out, Sherlock spinning freely. Sherlock closed his eyes as he spun back around, trusting in his ability to feel and in John's ability to _be_. From beyond that foggy place of peace he felt John's arms twine around him like vines, one open hand curving around his back and the other firm on his waist as Sherlock fell into the dip. One of Sherlock's raised hands clasped the back of John's neck, while the other stayed high.

Lower and lower - Sherlock could feel the gravity on all sides, kept only at bay by John's arms in their protective grip. But they stayed steady, John poised at almost a right angle and Sherlock mere inches from the floor.

Suspended. Almost weightless.

Yes. _Perfect_.

"Sherlock…" A tickle of breath at his ear. "You can open your eyes now."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, only to close again as John leaned in and kissed him.

He felt light-headed, still breathless from their dance, and now John had kissed the air from his lungs, soft lips like thieves. They danced over his own, feather-light, just brushing until someone was pressing, pushing closer - oh, that was his hand, wasn't it, his hand curled clumsily in the bristling hairs at the back of John's neck and keeping their mouths so _brilliantly_ aligned.

A soft licking at his lips and Sherlock was opening, an eager seeking for more, but there was only the barest slick of a tongue against his own before John was pulling back, pulling a whimper from Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock tottered dangerously as John went to move back and his other hand, fisting itself in John's collar, continued to pull him closer. But John, ever steady, ever solid, readjusted his grip with a quiet laugh, and then gently levered the both of them to standing once more.

Breathing slow, now, Sherlock looked down at John. John was looking away, but only briefly, and Sherlock saw at the corner of his lips that infectious smile.

_Lips_, he thought, _that I have kissed_.

John's eyes, when they met his own, were so fiercely blue they shot him back to reality, Sherlock breaking the surface with a gasp.

"I ought," he tried to say past the tangle of his tongue, which was refusing to do anything beyond recall the feeling of another tongue against it. "I ought to go, to - I have class. Lestrade. Can't be late." He extricated himself from John's arms and whirled away, dizzy, almost staggering over to his things.

John's confusion was thick and sudden in the air between them. "Wait, Sherlock -" he hesitated. Sherlock continued on his war-path, blazing over to the bag and ripping off his shoes, or at least trying to - but his hands were shaking, couldn't stop.

The silence was just as thick. Sherlock's breathing had quickened again, coming fast and loud in his ears like the tide come back in to swallow him whole. Feeling as if he were gasping above the waves, he turned back to John, and was met with a stillness the likes of entering safe harbors. John, still like an island in all the great empty space where Sherlock had left him.

Maybe, the thought occurred to him now, he'd been going about this all along. His eyes flew over the slumped lines of John's shoulders, over his weakly clenched hands. Maybe John was just as much the drowning man as he.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean - it doesn't have to be anything, if you don't want, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I, if I overstepped, or -"

"No, it's fine." Sherlock said, clipping out the words. "I really am late."

"Your final performance happened yesterday, for Christ's sake. _Christmas is in three bloody days_. Surely they won't mind -"

"It's a commitment, John," Sherlock sighed. "You know how the academy is."

John shifted his weight, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck. "Shouldn't we ta- never mind, I guess, just." He sighed, something conflicted and weary slipping over his face. "I'll see you, er, tomorrow, then? For the meeting with Greg?" He shifted again, and Sherlock looked away.

"Yes. I'll text." They stood, neither of them staring but neither of them focused anywhere else. John was brilliant even at the corner of his vision, his light still burning at the corner of Sherlock's lips.

"Goodbye," he said then, shortly, when John offered up nothing more. He gave a jerky nod of his head, and even though he made for the door with his back to John, he could still feel those eyes on his spine the whole way out, tracking him through every echoing step.

Sherlock shivered with the winter wind as the door creaked open. Certainly not with anything else.

* * *

_Wednesday, December 23rd_

* * *

"You did _what_?"

"Christ, I know," John groaned, massaging his forehead. He was secreted away in what was usually the viewing area for parents at Kitty's, but it was vacant, the most of them having taken their children away for the holidays with hearty thanks. Glancing out the one-way glass, Beth was still sitting against the mirror, looking bored. John sympathized - the both of them tended to wait on Sherlock Holmes, he thought with no small amount of tenderness, far too often.

But he had bigger problems to worry about now, and huddled back further into the dark, the phone cradled against his hear. "I know it was stupid, and -" He cut off abruptly, all his breath whooshing from his chest in a heavy sigh. "I just… it felt like the right thing to do, in the moment." he admitted.

"God, I beg you, please don't give me all the gory details." Greg was on the other end, likely nursing a fretful beer and regretting all the moments he'd been waiting on Sherlock Holmes as well. Sherlock was supposed to swing by and pick them up, and then all together they would head back over to the Lestrades' place to solidify some of the final details for the audition which was coming up in…_ Jesus_, less than two weeks, now.

But Sherlock, of course, was nowhere to be found.

Maybe for the best, John considered, as his hands were still shaking with the crisis they themselves had wrought. He adjusted his grip on the phone, waiting for Lestrade to give the well-timed advice he'd become so accustomed to over the short course of their friendship.

But none came. John was forced to ask, through gritted teeth, "Well? What should I do? You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years, and no, I don't," he replied at last.

"Greg," John moaned in frustration. "You're supposed to say something helpful."

"Like what, mate? I reckon that is the most helpful thing I could have said." The kindness of his voice led John away from panic towards the calm that had deserted him in increasing intervals the longer he thought about the kiss. God, the kiss, Sherlock's odd, beautiful lips moving so oddly and beautifully beneath his own, so innocently eager it could have broken his heart -

"John? John, listen, come on. You know Sherlock, probably better than anyone else. Maybe better than the mad bastard himself. Give it time. You'll know what to say."

"John?" That was another voice, a different voice but a very, very familiar one. John whipped around to see Sherlock leaning around the open door, Beth's head peeking out beneath his own, the both of them suspended in the thin blaze of light slicing into John's darkness with dust motes flitting about their heads.

"Ah, I'm gonna have to call you back," John rasped, and abruptly ended the call. He squared his stance, looking to Beth. "Are you ready to go?" he said, in lieu of speaking to Sherlock.

She sighed and, with a roll of her eyes, disappeared from around the door.

It was just Sherlock, still washed in that light, while John stood alone in the charcoaled shadows of the room.

The light peered wider as Sherlock stepped inside, yawning like some great beast as it swallowed the sun - because then that light was disappearing entirely, winking out of existence with the click of the lock in Sherlock's hand.

"John, I wanted -" he began, but John mustered up a strangled noise, some aborted words that couldn't make it to the air but were enough to stop Sherlock all the same.

He focused on John with an intensity that never dulled, only grew brighter the longer it was turned on him. John fought the urge to squirm or shudder or look away. Instead, with every ounce of his willpower, he stepped towards Sherlock.

"This really isn't the place," he murmured.

Sherlock looked down at him. Without any light to see by, there was only the same calculating, blank look that told John nothing. Not all of them could be as good at reading people as Sherlock seemed to be. God, it was enough to frustrate any man right out of his mind.

But the closer John got, the more he could see the nuance to Sherlock's expression, little details emerging from the black hole, pulling away from that destructive gravity - there was the flicker of his eyelids as John stepped into his space, the soft drop of his open mouth as his whole head turned itself toward John's, the quickened rate of his breathing. John was close enough to wrap his arms around him, close enough to give in to the urges that had come so close to destroying everything before.

John continued to lean over, reaching around Sherlock's waist to unlock the door. "Nor the time," he said, and he hated the sound of those lonely words.

Sherlock had gone completely still, stiller even than when John had actually kissed him. Then, with sharp movements, he twisted the doorknob and flooded the room again with light, the dark train of his coat lost inside it.

John swallowed, and followed him out.

* * *

"Are you dating Mr. John?" Beth blurted. Across from him in the cab, her eyes were determined, her bottom lip poking out ever so slightly.

Silence stretched to fill the space between them. "No," Sherlock said at last. It had not, he thought emphatically, sounded like a question, because this was not something he was wondering, it was ludicrous to even suggest, and he really had to -

The pout was replaced with confusion. "But you're always together."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"And he talks about you all the time in class now," she sighed, raising her eyes upwards and giving a despairing shake of her head. "Of course it had to be _you_."

Sherlock, in between wondering where she'd learned such dramatics and trying to quell the odd rate of his breathing, finally set out to stop this ridiculous line of questioning. Straightening against the seat back, he lifted his chin.

"We're partnering. Dance partnering."

"Oh." Her eyes went wide in honest surprise, as if this hadn't before occurred to her. "You… ballet?"

Sherlock felt a very, very smug smile spread across his face. "Yes."

"But you never do _pas de deux_. No one wants to do _pas de deux_ with _you_."

The smile thinned. Next to him, John noisily blew out his breath through his nose. Sherlock sat back, turning his head to the streets outside.

"Obviously that's not the case. And it's not just ballet. We swing as well," Sherlock added.

Beth choked out a laugh. "You, a swinger? You're a danseur, everyone knows –"

"Beth," John said sharply. The cab slowed to a halt. "Alright, we're here, and thank Christ – if I had to listen to this for another minute I'd have rolled down the window and jumped."

Sherlock fixed him with a look of keen interest. "Really?"

"Jesus, Sher – no, of course not." He turned his attention to Beth now, fixing her with a tired smile. But his voice was edged with authority as he said, "How much I talk about Sherlock is none of your business."

"But you do talk about him," said Beth, and Sherlock, catching the impish glitter in her dark eyes, was caught in a sort of awed revulsion._ "Loads."_

It was the cabbie's turn to intervene. "That's enough, I got places to be." He gave a decided tap on the meter bridging their two sides of the car.

"Yes, sorry," John apologized immediately, and started forward to pay the man. Sherlock took a moment to swiftly catalogue this blush, yet another in the pantheon of colors that had paraded their way across John's skin in all the short time Sherlock had known him. But he frowned – he knew the difference between the splotchy red patterning John's chest after a hard swing session, just as he knew the smooth, sweeping lines of pink that would creep up over his collar while they did their ballet warm-ups. He knew the color of John's embarrassment, and this was something more than that…

"Out of the cab, my God," the cabbie interrupted.

Sherlock shot him an imperious glare, but it was nothing to the one he gave Beth when she leaned forward on their way out the door and whispered with jealous glee, "And you keep _staring_."

This was not, he thought decidedly, a good way to stop this disaster before it ever began.

Sherlock sent her a vicious snarl over his shoulder. The face he turned back to John was utterly placid. Out of the corner of his eye, Beth was playing the perfect innocent as well. Sherlock wondered if, perhaps, there had been something to what Lestrade said about her admiration.

Together, the three of them traipsed up the outside stairs. Before they even had to ring the bell, Lestrade was leaning against the doorframe, looking a mix between cross and amused.

"You know," he said casually, "I devised that clever question system of mine to prevent you and anyone else from kidnapping my daughter. I failed to come up with something for _forgetting about her._"

"I was busy," Sherlock intervened, waving a hand.

Lestrade ignored him in favor of beckoning Beth to him instead, and she stepped gladly into his arms, snug against his side. "What do you say, baby girl? Do we forgive him?"

"Only if I can watch rehearsal." She tried to pout, but there was something altogether too hopeful in her eyes, turned brown and sincere up to her father.

Lestrade laughed, and to his left, even John smirked a little. Sherlock snorted and pushed past them all into the house. "Well?" he said on his way up the stairs. "Don't we have things to discuss?"

Behind him, the awkward silence turned to heavy feet lugging heavier bodies up the stairs. Sherlock, though, was vibrating with energy. John's kiss still tingling on his lips, all the bitter words still unsaid fizzing in his throat, the madness of final preparation still buzzing all about them - everything needed only to be uncapped, and he would burst.

This was so monumentally _stupid_.

He swung his coat over the back of one of Lestrade's dining room chairs and immediately sat down at the table, palms splayed before him as he stared down at the documents Lestrade had already assembled there. Competition papers, final agreements, closing contracts…

He closed his eyes, waiting while the sounds of the three others moving about Lestrade's small kitchen murmured in his ears.

"Have you -" he heard Lestrade question softly, only to be cut off sharply - but in a voice just as quiet - by John.

"Don't."

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the neat print of John's name in dark ink on the white sheets until John and Lestrade settled into their seats as well. The muted noise of the television Beth was playing filtered in from the other room, filling their silence.

Finally, Lestrade coughed. "Well. Down to business, then?"

"I've decided I want to do the whole thing _en pointe_," Sherlock announced. He had, in fact. About two seconds ago.

John's eyes nearly came out of their sockets. Lestrade looked equally shocked. "Excuse me?" John managed after a while. "We haven't even - you're a man," he sputtered instead.

Sherlock scoffed, rolling back his shoulders. "Don't be so traditional. The French are in an experimental state right now, I need something bold and unusual, and that's it."

"Well then I repeat, we haven't even practiced," John retorted. He sat back and crossed his arms, and Lestrade threw Sherlock a warning glare as John continued - one Sherlock made a point to summarily ignore. "And because you're not lording over me enough, is that it?"

"Do remember, Sherlock," Lestrade cut in, his palms open on the table, "that you've got two weeks at this point. Are you sure -"

"Yes." Sherlock's gaze sliced over to John, who now refused to back down, his arms still firmly crossed over his chest and his own eyes gone hard. "We're up for the challenge, are we not?"

John lifted his chin and said nothing.

_Infuriating_ man.

Lestrade looked between the two of them for a tense second, before he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Alright, well, moving on, then… I've finally been given an official time for your audition. You'll be performing on the mainstage at 4 o'clock on January 6th, happy birthday to you."

Sherlock glanced back to John again, just as he was glancing quickly away. To the table, John said, an unreadable edge to his voice, "Your birthday?"

There was a sudden warmth in his cheeks, and shaking it away, he said, "What does that matter?"

"Christ, it doesn't, I just - would you stop taking everything so personally?"

"One might argue that birthdays are as personal as one can get."

John made some sort of indeterminate noise, before turning back to Lestrade, his hands now clenched together, stark white against its black staining. "What else?" he clipped. There. That was better.

"Hm," Lestrade dropped his head to read, scanning the page quickly before turning it around to them and tapping at two parallel lines at the bottom. "Nothing, just need you to read and sign. It's his contractual obligations should he be accepted, audition procedure for the both of you - that sort of thing."

"Oh, good, more fine print," Sherlock said, and signed without even bothering to read. He'd made thousands of contracts in his life, this should be no different.

"Once that's done, we can talk about travel plans. I've booked everything, just need you to look it over, and then we can talk… about the DC… trip, uh, John?"

John had been taking his time reading the contract, but now he was looking to Sherlock, curiosity and something else warring over his face.

"You realize this says the moment you're signed on, you're bound to them? Their rules? Their practice times, their schedules -"

"Obviously."

"No, Sherlock, _listen_," John said with an aggravated sigh. "You won't necessarily be able to get away. For our competition," he clarified, when Sherlock continued to stare blankly.

Oh. His gaze fell to where John's finger was still pointing, reading about his binding and their necessities and _dull._ He shrugged, pushing it away again. "I'm sure I'll be able to get out. They'll understand." His nonchalance, draped over his shoulders, was beginning to sag, and he dragged it up and pulled it more tightly about himself.

He did not want to think about his audition, or their competition, or what would happen when this finally ended.

Lestrade and John exchanged a glance, and Sherlock suddenly felt as if - for no reason - he was looking at them through a glass wall. It was the final straw.

"What?" Hoping that the knife of his voice might be sharp enough to break it.

"You recognize that you're all I have," John said finally, quietly.

Amazing, that John could shatter it, everything, with just a few soft words.

"I need this competition. I need you to uphold your end of the deal, or I'll -"

Sherlock's spine went stiff. "Ahh," he cut in abruptly, seizing on his words. "So that's all this is to you. A deal."

"And what else is it supposed to be?" John snapped it, hissed at him with all the fury Sherlock knew, _knew_ if he could just cut deep enough, had been hiding in his limbs, before only slipping out in a moment of passionate dance. "I'm getting a lot of mixed signals right now."

Lestrade stood up from the table. "Christ, I'm going to go make us some tea," he said, a bit desperately, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"How British," Sherlock said, but John didn't even laugh. Just sat there with his tired eyes and their smudged circles and his clenched fists. Sherlock swallowed.

"Have you just been trying to make me angry?"

"Is it working?" He hoped his voice didn't sound as strained as it felt, and tried to clear his throat inconspicuously.

"Yes!" he shouted, and then, making a conscious effort to control himself, John muttered, "I don't understand. Why are you trying to get a rise out of me?"

Sherlock shrugged.

John made another noise of frustration. "So this is some sort of game to you?"

He shrugged again.

"God, I can't -" John put his face in his hands and rubbed vigorously at his eyes. "If you're not even going to communicate with me here, then what's the point? Why are we doing this?"

It was Sherlock's turn to stand up, his anger piqued, and he whirled towards the window with his hunched back a clear sign to John: _stay away_, he hoped it said. Better that than what his shaking hands were saying as he stared down at them, with their open fingers and upheld palms.

"We dance. That's all the communication we need to do. Then we forget about all this nonsense."

John gave a bitter, incredulous sort of snort from behind him. "This is - this is nonsense, to you?"

It took everything he had not to reply.

He could hear the sounds of shuffling behind him - a coat being pulled on, housekeys jangling in a pocket, heavy, stomping feet. "So this all means nothing to you."

Some traitorous part of his brain assured him it was quite the opposite. But wasn't that just as dangerous. Isn't that exactly why he had to stop this, right here and now? He bit his lip.

Briefly, the noise all stopped. John, poised at the edge of the stairs, probably looking back at him, waiting. "Sherlock, please. As your friend, would you please just talk to me?"

He tasted blood. "I don't have," he said, mustering up all his courage, "_friends_."

John went as quickly silent as if he'd been slapped. And then, in a shaky voice, he said, "You know what, sod this. Sod it all, you can call me when you're ready to stop being such a bloody child."

And then there was the sound of swift feet on the steps, a door opening only to be slammed shut seconds later, and John disappearing into London streets.

Sherlock slumped almost immediately into a chair, his legs giving out, and Lestrade appeared around the kitchen, the three cups juggled in his hands sloshing boiling water all over his skin.

He looked from the door, to Sherlock, to John's empty place, and back to Sherlock. "What," he said carefully, as his water-stained skin began to burn as red as his face, "have you done?"

His eyes never leaving the door, he managed in a whisper, "What was necessary." But the taste on his tongue was not a sweet relief as he said the words. It was something gone sour.

He looked up. Without his noticing, the mugs had vanished, and Lestrade was sitting across from him at the table, something worried in his dark eyes and the lines of his folded hands. "Are you sure?"

Unable to speak, Sherlock shook his head, very, very slightly.

Lestrade sighed and leaned away, looking up towards the ceiling before his gaze fell back to Sherlock. "Why don't you walk me through it?"

He shook his head again. To put off Lestrade's exasperation, he sat forward, saying impatiently, "There's nothing to explain. We cannot become -" he lowered his voice, "_involved_, isn't it best to break it off now and save ourselves the pain?"

"You say that as if pain is a foregone conclusion."

"Lestrade." Sherlock lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "You must know that in a relationship with me, it is."

"Isn't that choreographing ahead of the music, or however that saying goes?"

"No. That's drawing on… past dances. I know all the steps of this one," he said haltingly, cautiously, testing the phrases. "I've danced things like it before."

"Alright, then. But there's a new element you're forgetting." When Sherlock looked up in confusion, Lestrade smiled, resigned and honest all at once. "You have a partner this time. A _partner_."

This was idiotic, foolish, silly as the sudden quickening of his heart in his chest. "I've had… partners before…"

"But none willing to dance with you every step of the way." Lestrade groaned, waving his hands. "I give up on this. Point is, John's head over pointe shoes for you, alright, and I suspect it's the same for you. He was the first to believe in you, and for chrissakes, if this is you being worried about getting hurt or whatever nonsense you've dreamt up in that funny old head, then the least you could do is believe in him."

Sherlock recalled the moment he asked John to do this. John yet again storming out, but then coming back to find him, swallowing his pride and asking to be let back in. He recalled all the impossible things he'd asked of John, leaps and twists and spins that old shoulders took on with determination, no matter what they'd borne in the past. Heavy loads. New burdens.

At times, Sherlock, over and over again.

Strong arms gripped tight about his waist. A trust fall more like flight.

"Either way," Lestrade was saying. "Until you at least apologize for being… you, then you're out of a dance partner, and that's something you can't have. Nor me, come to think of it."

"Or me," piped up a small voice. Lestrade and Sherlock turned. Beth, now in a pajamas and clutching one of the abandoned cups of tea, watched from the open door. "I still have to watch you practice. No way I'm missing out on the weirdest partnership of all time."

"Weirdest, eh?" said Lestrade. She clambered up onto his lap, and he nuzzled at the back of her head before planting a kiss there. "Only if that means best. Because they are, you know."

"Well, we'll see," she said primly, taking a sip.

"What do I say?" Sherlock said.

"The words will come to you, I'm sure."

Sherlock gave a soft snort, pressing the base of his hands to his eyes. "Words aren't really 'our thing.'"

"Then dance it." Beth again. He looked up at her through the hair that had flopped over his eyes. But no, that elfin grin was still gone, an utter seriousness shining from her child's face instead.

"What do you mean?" he ventured.

She sat up straighter in her dad's lap, clearly pleased with the attention she was receiving from the both of them. Strange, to have that look directed at him by a child. It was a bit, though, he thought uncomfortably, like looking into a mirror - there was that same passion, the same intensity, her eyes eager and round.

He then thought he ought to start paying more attention to Beth Lestrade, who, he was beginning to suspect, knew him better than anyone. Well. Perhaps not John.

"It's something Mr. John's started to say in class. 'We speak through dancing, it's how we communicate.' So why don't you speak in a language you both understand?"

"Beth," he said sincerely, "you are not half as dimwitted as I suspected."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but he'd stopped paying attention. With the words still ringing in his ears, still sparking with the heat of his blood, he stood up quickly. "I need to go after him."

Behind him, he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a high-five.

"You know," said Lestrade, following him to the door. "There is only one other universal language."

Sherlock felt his face heat. "Shut up." And then he was gone, feet hitting the wet pavement with a slap, as he bounded down the street in search of John.

As he fled down the stairs, though, he heard Beth ask, "And what's that?"

Lestrade sighed. "Love, my dear. Two idiots in love."

* * *

John sat on a stool at the Amber and glowered at everyone who dared come near. He glowered at the door, the dancers, the Christmas finery strung up along the walls, and at the door again and very decidedly did not wonder if Sherlock would come after him. He'd got what he wanted, after all. John had gotten angry, and stormed out of the flat and out of his life and that was exactly what he'd been after. Though John hadn't the faintest idea why.

_I shouldn't have pressed him_, he thought. _I just wanted to talk to him. Just talk, is all_.

He flexed his fingers around the wide rim of his glass, feeling its cool, smooth expansion like a living, breathing thing. _Lungs, a ribcage, a body in motion_. Sherlock had never really spoken to him, not really, not even from that first moment of practice. Not in words, anyway.

He should have danced it for him. He thought he had. It's why he'd kissed the ruddy man, after all.

At least there was no one he knew here tonight. He allowed his eyes a lazy scan of the bar. It'd been awhile since he'd been out with friends, and lord knew they'd have questions.

_Join the club_, he thought, and ordered another whiskey, in fact the _best_ whiskey they had to offer, because why the hell not. Also because Sherlock had had a strict no-drinking policy over the course of rehearsals. Something about it making 'stupid men even more prone to idiocy, with the added side-effect of smelling so delightfully like a brewery.'

He was able to acknowledge that it was the one good thing about all this being over.

He knocked it back, pleased at the burn as it slid scorchingly down into his gut. Being a man who knew his way around a bar, this was not the reason he began to sputter.

Sherlock's eyes, cat-eyes, bay-green and icy and hot, were watching him from across the bar.

John gaped, and those eyes slid away. The disinterest Sherlock exuded in the nonchalant line of his back and the arm propped across the bar, hip cocked to lean against it, was almost - almost - good enough to fool John. But if there was anything John could read as well as Sherlock, it was Sherlock's body. If something hadn't looked right in Lestrade's dining room, something was definitely… off, now.

But, he thought uncomfortably, as a twin heat curled up next to the tequila and the anger and purred low in his belly, he didn't know if it was necessarily _wrong_.

For a moment, if only to get his head back on, he focused on the anger, allowing it to upwell from that base heat like something volcanic. Sherlock had always needed to learn a thing or two about boundaries, but this, this was - if the man wanted to further tear apart his dignity, or his security, he'd be hard-pressed to suggest ways that could be worse.

Watching John, bitterly drinking at the bar that'd been one of his old haunts even before he'd heard of Sherlock's name. Discarded, thrown back to where he was before. No way out.

The _prat_.

He slammed his glass on the table. "Another, please."

The bartender, in the midst of topping him up, cast a glance over his shoulder. He turned back to John with raised eyebrows. "So are you going to punch the bugger or snog his brains out?"

"Something like that," John agreed placidly, and drained what he'd been handed.

Then he strode around the bar, walking with the fast beat gasping from the speakers. Abandon, determination, a cold, cold fire… this was the essence of swing.

Sherlock tensed as John tapped his shoulder. Slowly, slow as a breath, he turned.

John jutted his chin toward the dance floor. Sherlock, after another moment burning just as slow, gave a terse nod. Together, they strode away from the bar, into the throng of swaying, kicking, lifting bodies.

But the beat of John's heart began to war with the big band thrum. Just as before, John felt the regular eyes on him, eyes that had admired him in the past and, more recently, come to look on him with judgment and pity. Now, though, they all widened in confusion with the widening of the crowd around them like a parted sea, and their whispers became questions that - in a few short seconds - John would have to answer. For better or worse.

"Is he back? Is John Watson dancing again?"

"Who's the tall bloke with him?"

_Wind-up doll, have you found your maker_?

John snaked a hand up between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Sherlock's landed tentatively on John's shoulder. But John was having none of it - when their old hands met in their familiar clasp, John took the opportunity to jerk him closer and speak into his ear.

"Trust me," he breathed, a whiskey whisper.

Against his cheek came a shuddering sigh, and then the rasp of Sherlock's curls as he nodded.

He leaned back, proper distance, and stared into Sherlock's eyes. His head nodded slightly with the counts.

They rocked back, gathering momentum, and pushed off into the rest.

And the fight, the competition, all of it - everything fell away. Sherlock not Sherlock and John not John, the both of them disappearing into something larger.

This was a body alive against him, like something gone electric - it sparked and John recalled fireworks, lightning, high-voltage danger signs that warned people to stay away. Something too wild to touch.

_I'll tame you_, said the hands at this feral creature's waist. Skittish, it thrashed, resisted, had been resisting so long - until it did not. _If you'll let me. _

John pulled him closer, aching to feel that movement in his being's every atom. Sherlock twisted under his arm, and when their hands met again, John cradled him down into an unexpected dip, Sherlock's head thrown back, his white throat bared.

"We're going to do an aerial," John panted to the straining skin. "Russian."

"Social floor," Sherlock reminded.

"Don't," John smirked, lips at his ear, "be so traditional."

In the millisecond before, Sherlock lifted his head and stared back, quiet and still. And then he dropped again. Trusting.

John kissed at his pulse and Sherlock went boneless.

With a firm grip on his forearms, John pulled Sherlock up and then spun him out wide, cheers from the other dancers ringing out over the shape of his partner turning, turning, turning.

And then John sidled up slow to catch him from behind. Together, they kicked front, back, front, back, a tandem Charleston. Even as the wild rhythm slithered against their feet, threatening to knock them off balance, they were in perfect sync. With his chest to Sherlock's back, their hands stayed bound beside them.

He squeezed Sherlock's hands.

Then John pushed forward, upwards, and Sherlock took the cue.

With a huff of breath he leapt into the air, executing an almost flawless split at the peak of his ascent, John kicking out between his legs.

Only a second, and it seemed like ages, Sherlock hanging there like the electricity that sang between their bodies in these flawless moments. Some distant thing that was _John_ gazing up at the spine arching through Sherlock's grey dance shirt and feeling something twist at its perfection.

Sherlock hit the ground and they were off again, switching, kicking, doing swingouts and shakes until at last Sherlock came back after a breathless spin and said, "Flip. Trust _me_."

Sherlock squeezed _back_.

John was still outside his body, or better still, curled up somewhere deep inside of it, just breathing and being. But some part of him was looking into Sherlock's eyes and finding someone staring back as if John had been spun out across a darkening dance floor, and Sherlock's was the hand reaching out and pulling him into the light.

Sherlock's eyes sliced into his own like sunlight over the sea. Well, he thought, tightening his grip. Best to drown together.

"K-flip," he agreed. "Right shoulder." And after a few more steps of the basic, they inhaled as one.

John tugged Sherlock close, Sherlock's arm going around his shoulders as John's other hand snaked up beneath it. John braced himself against the floor at an angle as Sherlock flipped his body weight up and over John's shoulder, ducking as Sherlock's bent legs sailed past.

He straightened again, making it all the more dramatic when Sherlock, looking as if he were about to return to the upright, went perpendicular to John's side, curling around his back. The two of them leaned forward as one, Sherlock's hand flat on the ground with John still supporting him tight around the waist.

John could feel Sherlock's knees, pressing just so slightly along his spine.

John grunted. To not fuck up the end was important, but there was an enormous effort of will required in straightening, in bringing them both back to the upright. An explosion that was all him. All - quite literally - on his shoulders.

But Sherlock made himself so light, so good - all six bloody feet of him did nothing to impede John, Sherlock unfolding himself with all the grace ballet had given him. John took a deep breath and brought himself up with a shout, brought Sherlock down snug against his side, and that was it. They'd done the lift.

They stood, mired in place with the weight of what they'd just accomplished.

The bar had erupted with noise. The music was drowning beneath the onslaught of cheered praises and shouted encores, and it was all for them.

Their arms were still slung around each other's shoulders, and John leaned into him in amazement. Sherlock had staggered back when he'd hit the ground, but now he leaned in, too. John could feel the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock's skinny chest against his side. He felt again when its rhythm changed - Sherlock, laughing softly.

John looked up, meeting his eyes.

Meeting him in… everything. That was what Sherlock had told him, with his arms and his legs, his grace and his willingness, in every moment of their dance - everything.

As if returning to wakefulness after a dream, he registered the sensation of Sherlock's hand against his face. His finger was stroking across John's cheek.

Without breaking eye contact, John turned his head, and briefly placed his lips to the pad of Sherlock's thumb.

Sherlock swallowed. "I'm sorry," he murmured, just low enough for the two of them to hear.

"Yes."

Sherlock's eyes were the clearest blue. "Come home with me," he said. "Take me to bed."

And John said, "Yes."

* * *

_**ballroom** - often used as an umbrella term for a variety of social partnered dances, these tend to be slower and favor more closed positions. While West Coast Swing can be considered a form of ballroom dance, the Lindy Hop John would be used to falls more toward the jazz/jive side of partnered dances._  
_**Charleston** - originating as a basic dance in the 1920s, the steps involved provide a wide opportunity for the variation necessary to modern Lindy Hop. The most common move, referenced here, appears as a step forward, followed by a kick forward, that same foot stepping back, and the other foot kicking back. The **tandem Charleston** is this specific move performed by the two partners (lead and follow) in sync._  
_**en pointe** - dance performed with the dancer elevated up on the toes. Sherlock's request is unusual in that most men (though not all) do not typically dance in pointe shoes at all._  
_**big band** - musical ensemble typically associated with swing and jazz-era dance_  
_**aerial** - dance move performed in the air. The **Russian**, or split-kickreferenced here is a basic movie in which the lead (base) lifts the follow (flyer) and kicks between their legs while the follow performs a split._  
_**K-flip** - another aerial in which the follow is flipped around the shoulder and behind the back before coming to stand_


	7. Chapter 7

_Thursday, December 24th_

* * *

John stared out at the snow on the windowsill, his hand stroking in loops, in whorls, a delicate choreography over Sherlock's back.

Snow was unexpected in London, even if it had been a bit colder these past few weeks. In those same weeks, though, John had ceased to be surprised by the unexpected. He'd had rather a lot of it recently.

It was easier to take these unexpected things as they came - he paused, turning his head to bury his nose in the still-sleeping Sherlock's hair, eyes closed as he breathed in deep - when they were also so very beautiful.

"We should dance in the snow," Sherlock murmured against his throat. He was snuffling, shifting into wakefulness beneath the covers. John felt wet lips brush under his jaw like a dreamy afterthought, then again, and again. Sherlock hummed, low and resonant and appreciative, and John laughed when it tickled.

Shivered, too, at the weight of Sherlock's hand low on his hip.

"Nah, thanks," said John at last, lacing his hands together behind Sherlock's back and squeezing. Their skin, where it touched, was warm, and the heaps of blankets on Sherlock's bed pressed close and snug. John sighed, dropping his head to nose at Sherlock's face. "I'm quite comfortable here."

"Mmm," he sighed, whether in agreement or not John couldn't tell, but it didn't matter. Sherlock was nosing back, nosing up and searching and - _yes_. Their lips met, sleepy-stale but hot and luxurious and wet and _everything_. John's hand came up in a curve around Sherlock's face and Sherlock made a small, high sound and kissed back harder, closer, and oh, yes, this was everything John hadn't known he'd wanted and all he ever would.

He was so goddamn responsive. And that, that was something John could respond to.

"I should have known from the dancing," he said, rolling Sherlock onto his back. He dropped his nose to Sherlock's neck, skating over the skin, and breathed in deep lungfuls - old wood, peppermint, smoke and sweat. And here, just at the join of neck and shoulder - of John. Gently, he nipped his shoulder, and then again, not-gently.

Sherlock gasped. His hands went, restless, to John's sides, fluttering anxiously. "Known what," he rasped, but his voice was only half in it. He turned his head, much more interested in trailing his messy lips over the side of John's face.

John turned back, their mouths caught just off-center. Not good enough. He dragged himself up and framed his hands around Sherlock's face, but stopped before he could go in for a proper kiss. Experimentally, he tugged at the wild nest of hair pillowed behind his head. Sherlock moaned, better than any music at all, eyes flickering open.

Sherlock was looking at him, expectant, eyes blacker than they'd ever been and focused entirely on him.

John swallowed, just as Sherlock made some rumbly, petulant noise and put his arms around John's neck in an attempt pull him back down. John brushed a sweaty curl from his temple, smiled, and nuzzled at Sherlock's nose.

"Should have known what it's like," he murmured, watching the droop of Sherlock's eyelids, "when your body moves against mine."

Sherlock's eyes shot open again. He heaved in a breath and flipped them, shifting to straddle John's waist. John gave a surprised laugh that ended on a groan, the slow, deliberate drag of Sherlock's arse over his hardening cock wiping any other thoughts from his mind.

At least until Sherlock leaned over and kissed him slowly and ground down. Then his only thought was to get him to do that again, and again, however and as quickly as possible.

They rocked against each other, breathing the same slow air with the same slow push and pull of skin. Once, John took his hand from Sherlock's hips and made to move between them, but Sherlock shook his head and pulled it away. "Not yet," he managed, pushing their joined hands into the mattress as he bore down with another sharp inhale. "Thinking."

John laughed, quietly. "No thinking during sex."

"_Best_ thinking during sex."

John scoffed. Sherlock shushed him, but gave a quick grin. One that John took particular pleasure in biting from his lips.

And then John was content to simply move and watch. Sherlock in the build-up was beautiful. He rolled his slim hips with eyes squeezed shut, and the long line of him arched above John's body was only broken when he dropped his head forward like it was too much to bear. His gasps were broken, too, hitching in the middle and dying off, lost, in the end. Every time John touched him, a hand on his chest, a thumb trailing over his clavicle, even the upward circle of his hips, the gasps turned to high moans and Sherlock moved faster.

John steadied his grip and read him at every turn, slowing when he did, urging him on with quiet words and his own breathless sighs.

Sherlock had batted his hand away, and since they both knew they probably couldn't get off like this, John figured that was the point. He was enjoying their gentle morning rut, enjoying the rhythm that John was beginning to suspect was something simply inherent to them, too deep for words. He put a palm over Sherlock's chest, wondering - a bit sappily, he admitted to himself, and not caring in the slightest - if their hearts were syncing, too.

But Sherlock finally broke the stillness. "'We tell more through our movements,'" he began. John had to sort back blearily through his memory to figure out what he was talking about, but when he did, he turned serious eyes up to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock was smiling down at him, his hips circling slowly, now, a strange, bright flickering in his eyes. John slowed to match, waiting.

"'We tell more through our movements instead of the big clinch. We do it all in the dance,'" Sherlock said, soft. He shifted his hips, dragging his length over John's in one long, smooth motion.

"Oh my god," said John, stopping completely. Sherlock's face fell.

"What?"

"I'm in bed with Fred Astaire. It's like all my lifelong dreams are coming true."

John laughed as Sherlock rolled his eyes. Still laughing, John pulled him in for a kiss, feeling the corners of Sherlock's lips turn up against his own. A sudden giddiness swarmed over him, and John rolled them onto their sides, kissing him more fiercely. Sherlock's mouth opened beneath his, John touching his tongue to Sherlock's and sighing out the last of his giggles.

Sherlock hummed, reaching over to drag John's left palm up to his face. He drew back, his eyes flicking upwards to meet John's steady gaze, then licked John's hand. He offered his own and John took his time, prodding at his palm with the wet, pointed tip and taking just the top of his thumb between his lips, curling his tongue around it and sucking. When he'd finished coating Sherlock's hand in saliva, Sherlock was breathing heavily and his eyes were wild.

Moving too quickly, their elbows knocked as their hands moved between their bodies, their heads jostling for space as they looked down to watch. John's mouth fell open when Sherlock's cock slid against his palm, silky hot with a trail of precome already dribbling from the tip. He felt Sherlock's body jerk away, then shift forward eagerly, just as Sherlock's saliva-slick hand wrapped around him and gave one sharp tug.

"Fuck," he growled, the sound torn out of him. Sherlock nodded, head lolling on his neck, and began to stroke him in earnest.

This was a new rhythm, fast and insistent. If it had been ballet before, this was swing. But this was still ballet's passion, its grace, and their previous steady movements had been just as infectious as a fast swing beat. This was a blending of everything; this was, this was - them.

They fell into it, into each other. Sherlock's nails raked down his shoulder blade as he tried to stifle a whimper. John cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and kept their eyes locked as their hands sped up, matching each other's pace.

Sherlock still came before him, going stiff and then boneless. A wetness flooded John's hand, Sherlock's cock twitching in his grasp, and Sherlock groaned through the whole thing like he was dying with his fingers clenched around John's arm. His voice gave out when he did, melting forwards around John with his mouth open and his eyes still shut tight.

John kissed his ear, his jaw, his cheek, until Sherlock raised his bleary head. "You haven't," he said slowly. John shook his head, and Sherlock breathed in shaky relief. "Good. I want to see you."

After that it took only three short pulls of Sherlock's long-fingered hand before John was coming, quivering in Sherlock's grip with his name of his lips. Sherlock folded him close when he'd finished, his arms draped heavy and exhausted over John's shoulders.

John's nose was in the sweat still under Sherlock's chin, and he giggled again. Tenderly, he licked it away, salt-bitter and somehow sweet on his tongue. Sherlock's skin was still leaping beneath his touch, jumping like livewire, and they clung to each other until the trembling stopped.

By that time, though, they were on the verge of sleep.

"John," he heard Sherlock say, just at the brink.

"Mmm," he responded, knowing they should get up, shower, get dressed, and not making any attempt to move.

"I go to this… place, when I dance. My mind palace. It's… quiet. Perfect." Something sleep-heavy and loved wrapped itself closer around him, and John put his arms around it as if it were possible to contain all that warmth and all that light. "You're there, too."

They slept, still breathing in time.

* * *

_Friday, December 25th_

* * *

Sherlock had promised John a surprise, and from the look on John's face as they stepped out of the cab on Christmas morning, he'd done a good job of it. Pleased, he strode towards the doors, spinning on his heel to look back for John when he didn't immediately follow.

John closed his mouth, then looked at Sherlock with something deep in his darkly tender blue eyes. Sherlock was glad it took John a minute to speak - he was finding it difficult to do so himself. John had looked at him many times before, but _now_. Now he knew what they looked like all those other times, now he was privy to the secret welling in their depths every moment they were together.

Sherlock wasn't much for public affection, but now that he knew he could touch, he was forced to admit how very difficult it was not to do so.

"You take me to work on your off-day?" John said, stepping up beside him. Markova House, ornate red and white with The Royal Albert Hall in its slim rotunda lying just beyond it, had grown dull in Sherlock's eyes. But John was looking at it like something fascinating. He was content to stare at John with the same intent look.

But they hadn't even gone inside yet. His energy buzzing again to the surface, he clapped his gloved hands and started forward with purpose. "I'm taking the both of us to work," he called behind him, and swung open the door.

True to the spirit of the holidays, it was almost deserted. The front hall echoed loftily with their footsteps in the absence of all its usual warm, moving bodies, as if trying to fill the gap with sound instead.

But it wasn't completely empty - Beth Lestrade and her father were grinning down from the top of the stairs above them. "Happy Christmas!" they chorused, the greeting booming in all that space.

Trivialities. Sherlock grimaced, but John gave a short, happy laugh. "Hello," he said, waving. Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to start forward, but Lestrade and his daughter both stuck out their hands in a giggly panic.

"Not so fast," said Lestrade, and pointed. Sherlock looked down, frowning, the oddness of their actions throwing him off-balance in a way he almost never was, only to have John's gentle fingers tip his head up from below instead.

Oh.

"How did they even get it up there?" Sherlock murmured, only slightly cross, as John kissed him beneath the sprig of mistletoe.

The best part of it was the most interesting shade of red John became when they pulled apart to the cheering and hooting of the Lestrades. Unfortunately there wasn't enough time to study it before John was clearing his throat and starting up the stairs. At least there was, however, time to surreptitiously slip his hand over the curve of John's arse and, from the corner of his eye, watch him go three shades darker.

They'd mostly stopped laughing by the time they reached the top. Lestrade's half-smile softened. "Glad to see the two of you are talking," he said, and turned around to lead them down one of the studio hallways.

"I'll just be glad to see the two of you dancing," rejoined Beth, earning a nudge from her father.

"Me too," John said at his side, and Sherlock glanced down to see light from the windows above hiding in the curve of John's smile.

They entered into the room where Sherlock spent most of his time at the National. Most ballet studios had the orderly, if dull, effect of looking as if interior design were contagious - wall-length mirrors, the barre bisecting plain white walls overlaying dark wood finish on the floors. But John was again looking around as if it were something special.

"It's just a dancing studio," he said, flipping down his collar and slinking out of his coat.

John was shrugging out of his as well, and gave him a look. "It's your dancing studio."

Sherlock considered, his eyes narrowed, then gave a quick nod. He turned to Lestrade, who had folded his arms over his white t-shirt and was eyeing the both of them critically. "What now?" he asked impatiently. "Too much trouble to just work the stereo like I asked?"

"Hey, now," he replied, not sounding the least bit put-out, "if I'm to provide an 'honest evaluation of your progress,' an 'esteemed letter of recommendation by someone worthy of respect,' then I think I ought -"

"Greg's your rec letter?" John interrupted. When Sherlock turned, he was wearing a toothy grin.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "'Greg?'" he said, ignoring the question.

John tilted his head. "That is his name."

"Obviously," he sighed, fluttering a hand. "But why are you using it?"

"Some-one's jeal-ous," Beth sing-songed from the bench running along the far wall.

"Someone's about to be," he replied easily. It was either that, or give in to the urge to drag John up against the wall and make him forget any name but Sherlock's.

Lestrade and John gave twin sighs. "That's enough sniping for one Christmas, I think," John said. Sherlock caught Beth's eye, watching hers roll away wearily.

He rocked back on his heels. "The tape," he said to his instructor, focusing his attention instead on John. "Are you ready?"

Hands on hips, he gave John a critical once-over. It'd be their first time performing the routine in front of anyone else, but looking at John, he was even more assured: it was going to be perfect. In their short time together, the pudge at John's waist had already slimmed to tapered hips. The muscles in his shoulders were beginning to show signs of regrowth.

Ballet had never left John, and he'd always been a dancer, but watching the effects consume him once more had been fascinating. Their benefits, he thought, watching as John nodded and turned to walk to their 'offstage' at the back of the room in his really very well-fitting dance tights, even more so.

"Are you?" Lestrade drawled from the front of the room, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

"Always," said Sherlock, and sauntered to his starting position.

"Anyway," Lestrade began again, in the middle of fiddling with the speakers. "What I was going to ask before is if you'd thought more about dancing _en pointe_."

He could hear John's tense stillness from the back of the room. "Yes," he said, and turned to face John. They locked eyes. "I'd still like to, my partner willing."

Partner. He rolled the word about on his tongue, testing. Finding it worthy, in all senses of the word.

John jutted out his chin. John wasn't much of a worrier, but there was always a concern there in his steady hands. A concern for Sherlock, especially, that was almost baffling. He'd danced with hundreds of people in his lifetime, men and women, and none of them handled a partner with such care. Expert hands, he understood. But quiet ones, in a deceptively quiet man, were something new.

It was odd, because now it went both ways. Sherlock could still feel the thrumming urge to rush ahead, lace up his ribbons and dance, rock forward onto his toes and feel the height and power and grace that came from such a delicate balancing act performed as only the best could do. And he was the best. But he held his arms down, kept his legs in place, restrained. He waited for perhaps the only one who was better to give him this one thing.

"It's cutting it close," John sighed, but Sherlock heard the note of resignation. Saw, when John lifted his head, the light beginning to gather behind his eyes. The heat of a challenge.

"But we'd be fools not to try," Sherlock said, feeling his blood begin to pulse harder and hotter.

John grinned swiftly. "And if there's one thing you're not, it's a fool."

Sherlock didn't dare look away. "Quite right."

John's grin softened, but he turned apologetic eyes to Lestrade when the man sighed heavily. "I think that's a yes, then. Sherlock, d'you have your shoes with you?"

Sherlock was already pulling them out of the bag, slipping them on with care even as the excitement was shivering in his veins. Men didn't typically do pointe work. But Sherlock - he stood, gazing down at them, soft, black-dyed fabric resting readily on the dance studio floor - wasn't typical.

This would be key. Everything he'd worked for had led to this possibility, and he was reading to take it. Once they saw this, it would be his ticket. _Paris_.

John swallowed as Sherlock gave an experimental roll up from his heels onto his toes. "We're really going to need to work the new dynamics of -"

"Everything," Sherlock finished, coming back down to flat feet.

"Yeah," said John, the muscles in his jaw working. "You're really fucking tall when you do that. Christ, sorry, sorry," he said, as Lestrade loudly cleared his throat and a gleeful grin appeared on Beth's face, and then amended, "You're really freakishly tall."

"Actually, you're rather short," Sherlock said dismissively, and Lestrade snorted. Sherlock's eyes shot towards him at the sound. "Can it be done?"

Lestrade worked the back of his neck with an anxious hand. He blew out a long breath. "It'll be hard, but - Jesus, if there's anyone who could do it, it's you two."

Beth spoke up from a silence still wavering. "You can do it. I know you can. Especially today," she said, and then colored immediately, as if she hadn't meant to say it.

The three of them turned equally surprised faces to meet her. John briefly caught Sherlock's eye before fixing her with a frown.

Squirming under their glances, she gave a hasty shrug. And then she said, grudgingly, "You remind me of the way mum used to dance. Mum and Dad would always dance for me on Christmas."

He heard Lestrade's sharp intake of breath, and looked more closely at his daughter. Sherlock had never met Molly, and Lestrade didn't speak of her all that often. But there were features of Beth's, the prim nose, the small ears and lips, that didn't belong to her father. Delicate, and a dancer, yes, he could see it. Molly Hooper had been a rising star before something as simple as a disease, insidious and more consuming than even dance could ever hope to be, had taken everything from her.

Beth Lestrade, though, in the entire time he'd known her, had been either a minor blip on his radar or busy giving as good as she got. She was the child who bickered incessantly with him but the one who had been to every single one of his performances. The girl Lestrade insisted adored him but acted as if she couldn't care less. And he'd never taken the time to figure out why. But now it mattered.

Because perhaps John had not been the only one to ever believe in him.

Delicate, Sherlock had never been. But he could dance.

"Then Merry Christmas, Beth," he said, decisively, and moved back to John.

"What's this, then?" John asked, his voice low.

Sherlock looked at him carefully. "Returning a favor," he said at last. And then, eager to move on after so many delays, he said, "Shall we?"

John surprised him with a quick peck on the lips. "It's really very sweet," he mumbled, and if he still didn't understand, he moved calmly back into position. Allowed some things of Sherlock's to just stay Sherlock's.

"Shut up," Sherlock replied, for good measure, but there was little venom to it. He returned to the center.

It started with him.

He tested the floor, feeling the solid wood both at his toes and beneath the soles of his feet.

But as he'd told John only weeks before - it all really started with the music.

And when the music began, so did he, the solidity of the floor melting away and dissolving with all the others things that ceased to matter when he came to this place. Now in these moments it was dance, dance in the core of his being, he was flying, or falling -

John. He spun, caught his breath as John caught him: held close, safe and secure and just a little bit dangerous, like the brush of an angel's wings.

_I want to linger here_, he said in between one of the dips, unable to tell if the words were unspoken or had died on the air. But this was John negotiating new heights, new lows with equal ease and Sherlock relaxing, pliant and easy, against his holds, and it was true.

Sherlock knew about control. John's Cecchetti teaching would have taught him that. But once, a long time ago, it seemed, perhaps millions of eons of years, he'd wondered what John's bones looked like stretched beneath his skin, and now he knew. Not fine or refined, but coarse, weathered, worn. Arms and muscles that exercised control in how much they gave to Sherlock, in the negotiation of their limits, in this inhale-exhale, give-take. Partnership.

"Sherlock," came John's voice. It was like a hand leading him down out of a fog. He blinked, and there it was again - the quiet room, the quiet man, his quiet eyes peering up in warring concern and joy.

He blinked again, registering John's heaving chest, the droplets of sweat shimmering in his hair, the way his shirt clung to the skin beneath in wet swathes. "We've finished," John was saying.

Sherlock nodded, once, twice. "We were perfect," he said, the words coming thick and slow as the realization.

"Absolutely perfect," John whispered, his head falling forward onto Sherlock's shoulder. He laughed in sheer disbelief, the motion of it threatening to knock Sherlock backwards. Sherlock's arms came up around him, moving like phantom limbs.

_Perfect_. No one was, and yet they had been.

He was going to be accepted into The Paris Opera Ballet.

John's skin was so warm beneath his hands.

Over John's shoulder, he locked eyes first with Beth, who was clapping wildly with shining eyes. Then with Lestrade, who looked… stricken. As he watched, Lestrade shook his head, staggered around, and made for the door.

John's head came up with the sound of it closing behind him. He frowned again, moving as if to follow, but Sherlock threw out a hand. His heart was beating, strangely fast, and he shook his head slowly to combat it. "No. Let me."

John's eyebrows rose. "You?" But the look Sherlock sent him must have been enough, because he sighed once, and then moved over to Beth. She gave him a high-five, but Sherlock didn't bother to watch their exchange after that. Their laughter followed him, stealing cold over his body as he exited the studio.

Lestrade had his head tipped back against the wall, breathing out slowly.

"Lestrade?" Upon receiving no response, he swallowed. "...Greg?"

That earned a snort. "I'm still your bloody instructor, you know. For the time being."

"Lestrade, then. Though I fail to see how storming out provides any sort of valuable critique."

"Because there's nothing to say, Sherlock," Lestrade answered on a gust of air, and his hands came up to rub at his temples.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You always have something to say, often even when I -"

"I could tell you you're making a mistake." Lestrade's head tipped to the side, eyeing him wearily.

Sherlock was left startled. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Lestrade jerked a thumb back the way they'd come. "What you did in there," he said, his voice low, "was some of the best dancing I've ever seen. The best I've seen from you, definitely. Dancing with John is good for you. And I think it's good for him, too."

Sherlock looked down the long, deserted hallway. The window at the far end showed a flat, shadowless grey. It was snowing again. He looked back at Lestrade, the chill still lingering. "You aren't talking about the dancing."

Lestrade confirmed it with one long, slow shake of his head. "You don't," he said, speaking very carefully, "want to lose something like that." The next breath he took was even, but Sherlock noticed the way he carried himself, curled shoulders around a stiff ribcage, as if breathing were painful.

Sherlock took a step back. "I won't," he said, and certainly he'd only imagined the hitch in his voice. Just as certainly as Lestrade was imagining things now, things which would not, could not, come to pass.

But Lestrade's eyes were luminous, even cast in shadows. "Are you sure?"

"Always, Lestrade."

Lestrade smirked, shaking his head again. After a long, weighted silence, he murmured, "People would give you their legs to be able to dance like that."

"Proving only once more that people are idiots." But Lestrade was laughing lowly to himself. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Just winding you up." His gaze softened. "But you are going to make it. I just hope you know what to do about that when the time comes."

And with that, before Sherlock could even get in another word, he straightened and moved toward the doors. "Oh, but one more thing," he said, leaning back with his fingers curved around the handle. "Thank you, for. For what you did for Beth. And, uh. For me."

Sherlock gave him a curious nod, and then Lestrade took a last deep breath and pushed back into the room.

Still standing in the corridor, weak light flooding in from the far end, Sherlock looked down at his shadow stretching behind him.

He hadn't done it for Beth or Lestrade, not necessarily. That was collateral. Everything Sherlock did, everything he'd done, up to this point - that was for himself.

The door creaked open. Sherlock didn't move. Eventually, a shadow walked up to join his on the floor - compact, sturdy, and so very well-known. It sidled against the edges of his own until they meshed seamlessly.

The heat of John's body bled through where their shoulders touched, though it wasn't as warm as John's voice when he said, "Are you okay?"

Sherlock, still staring at the darkness of their intertwined shadows, nodded.

John made a noise like he didn't believe him, but didn't press. "Are you ready to go, then?"

"Yes," he murmured.

John waited a while longer. "Okay," he said, and stood back. On the floor, their shadows broke apart, a thin line of light splitting them jaggedly down the middle. John was moving back inside the studio and the distance between them, so very visible, was growing with it, getting larger and larger until John disappeared completely. Sherlock could chase after him, but it wouldn't matter, now. He'd already left the light behind. He was already gone.

Sherlock waited until the door clicked shut completely to suck in a strangely shuddering breath. And then he lifted his chin and refused to look down at the dark shape stalking his every step before following John inside.

* * *

"Don't see why we can't just take a cab," John grumbled, pulling on his boots nonetheless.

Sherlock had his coat done up to his chin, scarf wrapped tight over his ears. But John could still see the soft grin in his eyes as he shrugged, just before he tugged John to standing and led them both toward the exit and its dully glowing neon sign. "Where's your sense of adventure, John?" came his muffled voice, and he pushed the door open.

Outside, the streets were deserted in a way London almost never was. In the time they'd been dancing, the Christmas hush had begun to descend over the city, the mad, last-minute dashes all drawing in at last to find their meaning. As they walked the back-alley, secret paths Sherlock assured him led to home, footprints trailing behind them like quiet and impermanent afterthoughts scrawled in a city too busy to read them, John wondered. Wondered what it said of him now that he found meaning in the subtle steps of feet.

"I think I'm going to retire," he said, and looped his arm through Sherlock's, pulling him close.

Sherlock said nothing. Kept walking, those even steps with which John could still keep pace.

"When, when all this is over. Get myself a proper job."

"Boring."

"Shush, you. I'm serious."

Sherlock's voice, when it came next, was unreadable. "What about Clara?"

Clara. In his mind's eye she was laughing, radiant above him as they twirled, stage lights gone brilliant behind her yellow hair like a halo. He shrugged. "She's young. She'll find another partner. She deserves another partner," he said, somewhat ruefully.

Sherlock's arm tightened in his. For long moments, neither of them said anything. Then Sherlock looked away, out into the empty, lamplit street, and asked, "What about you?"

John forced a laugh. "What about me?"

"You know what I mean."

It was John's turn to look away, this time to stare at the brickface passing slowly alongside them with the snow catching and melting in its weathered crevices. Thousands of words of assurance that he could use, but there were only three honest ones in all the English language.

"You'll be go- in Paris." He paused, looking over at Sherlock, still gazing away with a frown now creeping into the wrinkles of his eyes. "Hey," John said, nudging into his side. "You alright? You're acting kind of funny, something the matter?"

Sherlock gave an ambiguous shrug, and John frowned, coming to a stop. He waited until Sherlock was looking at him, then took a deep breath. "You're going to make this audition. You're going to be brilliant, Sherlock. You always are."

Sherlock's eyes were the color of the wintry sky behind him. Slowly, he nodded, his shoulders rolling back. "I know. Of course, I know." John resumed looking straight ahead, resolute. The street sign for Sherlock's flat was a faint glitter of letters on white in the distance.

"Come on," he said, tugging Sherlock forward through snow that was coming down faster and faster. "Let's go home."

Sherlock would leave to deal with his family later that evening, tomorrow John would leave to visit his. Then practices upon practices would follow, and soon after that the entire reason for all of this would be upon them at last. One last moment, then, one last dance for just the two of them.

Suddenly, John stepped forward, rounding in front of Sherlock. He found himself grinning. Unable to stop. Sherlock's forehead creased in confusion, until John held out a hand and spoke.

"Will you dance with me in the snow?" he murmured, and watched the smile spread across Sherlock's face like a rising crescent moon.

Sherlock took his hand.

John tugged him close, burying his nose for a moment in the warmth just at his collar, seeping out from beneath Sherlock's blue silk scarf. He closed his eyes and breathed. He felt a feather-light brush of lips over the top of his head, and smiled into coarse, Belstaff wool. Then his hand curved around the slender give of Sherlock's back, and Sherlock, taking his other hand, relaxed into his touch.

They smiled and began to waltz, a slow _one, two, three_ count all the way up the darkening street, footprints lost to the snow behind them forever.

Later that night, the bed shifted and Sherlock crawled over him, draping himself close over John's side, his skin still cold from his return trip through the bitter winter night. John, teetering just at the verge of sleep, was lost before he had the chance to feel Sherlock press his lips hard to the skin behind John's jaw and whisper, "Home. You called it home."

* * *

Two weeks spent practicing until it felt as if dancing had replaced walking as the natural movement of their feet. They trekked out to the studio on Baker Street as often as possible - or as often as Sherlock could convince John, who was increasingly worried about one or both of them pulling something in the whirlwind of Sherlock's manic energy. Ever since the trip out to the English National and their really almost flawless performance for the Lestrades, Sherlock had begun dancing with a desperation that - though undoubtedly beautiful and just the emotional component Sherlock's style had been missing for so long - was beginning to, well, worry John, if he were being entirely honest.

He'd taken to wrenching John from whatever he was doing to work some minor step, become snappish and frantic (or more so than usual, John thought), and in any of the moments John found himself staring down at Sherlock's face in the midst of a dip or staring up at him in one of his breathtaking leaps, it was contorted in tight lines that, if John didn't know better, he would have called pain.

He didn't want to risk bringing it up, should it make Sherlock even more self-conscious than usual. And he was dancing beautifully, so it shouldn't have mattered. But it was making John nervous, the way Sherlock's body trembled so beneath his hands.

They continued, John hoping he could communicate everything in dance the way speech had only worked between them before. Hoping he could transfer at least some of his calm. But while Sherlock's movements grew no less beautiful, he was buzzing with frustration, winding himself tighter with every step. It was clear he was trying to answer, but there was some sort of fundamental disconnect between them, Sherlock's replies getting lost in the breach. And, like gravity or whirlpools or black holes, they were tripping in, spinning closer and faster towards some unknown end.

But by the time John had come to the grim realization that he needed to say something or threaten everything they'd worked so hard for, it was the day of Sherlock's audition.


	8. Chapter 8

_Wednesday, January 6th_

* * *

There were warm lips at the back of his neck. His curls shivered under the gusts of air John blew there with each small breath. A kiss, placed gently at his nape.

Sherlock, standing in the center of their private studio at Baker Street and gazing up at the grey light flooding through the windows, turned slowly. His arms came up and closed automatically around John, who was staring up at him with all his typical concern, all his unusual excitement and nerves. John came down from on tiptoe, eyes never leaving his own.

"Ready?" John asked. Sherlock was still staring down the length of his arms. They'd come up like phantom limbs. None of this, he thought, watching the subtle shift of John's weight in the circle of his embrace, belonged to him.

Sherlock spied the suitcase at John's side and the other held tight in his hand, and nodded.

John's forehead creased, and he looked as if he were about to say something. But no words came. Sherlock mirrored him, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at John, searching his face for the truths he could always, always find hidden in those expressive lines. "Are you?" he asked eventually.

The creases smoothed. John set the other bag on the floor, then that hand came up to Sherlock's neck, his fingers curving over the spot where his lips had been only moments before. Sherlock was gladly pulled in, meeting him for the kiss with his eyes screwed shut.

"Now I am," he heard, when John pulled back, and opened his eyes to John's smile.

It had made sense to meet here, though they wouldn't have time to practice before the cab would arrive and take them to the train. From there the train would send them off to Paris, Paris would find them rushing to Sherlock's audition at the opera house itself, and beyond that - well, anything after would be a tense limbo, a waiting game before the results of his audition came through. The time for practices and rehearsals had, indeed, come to an end.

But perhaps, time enough for a warm-up.

"You know," Sherlock said, breaking away to shuck his coat and scarf. "Train trips make me restless."

John crossed his arms. "I'm not having sex with you here, Sherlock. Or on the train," he added after a moment of thought. Sherlock only rolled his eyes, continuing to step out of his shoes and strip off his shirt.

"_La ville de l'amour_, indeed," he said, amused, his smile only broadening at the flush that rose on John's neck when he spoke the French with ease. _Shirtless_, no less - in their short time together he'd learned just a bit about John's affinity for Sherlock's bare chest.

Interesting, that Sherlock could already place that flush patterning John's among the multitude of others. His stomach twisted itself into a knot at the thought, and his smile dropped.

Hoping John couldn't see the tremor in his fingers, he beckoned John over to the barre. "A warm-up, John. That's all I meant."

John came slowly, coaxed over to the barre by the rhythmic movements that had first brought them together: first position, the heels tucked close, the back curved and relaxed, chest high, head up, arms low. His fingers gripped the barre and his other hand fluted wide, up, down. One foot, skating out over the floor. It was geometry, it was music; together they were art.

And when John joined him, it might have been astronomy, the two of them like gods painting constellations across an oakwood sky. The movement of the stars eternal. Each point, connected, only to vanish with the next breath and its new and careful steps.

He only noticed he was laughing when John pointed it out. "The _quadrivium_," he said, in answer. "Arithmetic, music, geometry and astronomy. An entire classical education in dance. Well, minus the _trivium_."

John was silent. Then, between a tendu and a plie, he said, honestly, "I have no idea what that means, Mister Public School."

Sherlock huffed. Over his shoulder, he said, "The _trivium _was rhetoric and logic in the pantheon of study. All this time we've been learning everything but how to speak. And the foundations of a philosophy course, I suppose, but I thought the former more apt, considering what you told me about our ability to speak in dance."

One, two, three… _breathe, repeat_. Like the three words unsaid, that wouldn't be said. Not by him, at least.

This silence was far more stretched and weighted, and over time Sherlock became aware of the fact that John was no longer moving with him in time. He looked behind him to see John staring down at the floor. His eyes came upwards to meet Sherlock's, and it seemed the blues and hazels of his gaze were at war, just as the thoughts behind them.

"Apt, yeah." John said, and he heaved in a breath, his shoulders set. "Sherlock, I really need to say -"

"Yoo-hoo!"

Sherlock's heart, already beating strangely fast from the look on John's face, nearly stopped in surprise. His head whipped around at the greeting, to see someone struggling through the door. "Mrs. Hudson?" he said incredulously. John, looking equally shocked, caught his gaze.

Sherlock looked quickly away. "Mrs. Hudson's the landlady," he said, by way of explanation, but it was all he could get out before she enveloped him in a hug and the delicate, familiar fragrance of rosewater and balsam. But he couldn't relax into it, not when John was still looking at him like _that_.

"My, you're looking well," she said appreciatively, giving him an extra squeeze as she looked up from his chest. She winked, in a manner she likely thought was covert but really wasn't, not at all. Her eyes strayed over to John before widening. "And this must be your young man!"

"_Partner_, yes, my… partner…" Sherlock said, at a loss, watching as John was taken into those arms as well. Still stronger than they looked, Sherlock noted, even after all these years.

Over her shoulder, John's eyes were wide, his face gone pale. "Mrs. Hudson," he said at length. "Not… not _the _Emma Hudson, surely…?"

Her eyes twinkled, no less dull for their years. "The very same. It really is just Mrs. Hudson now, though."

John's gaze sliced over to Sherlock. Sherlock frowned. "How is it you knew Mrs. Hudson but you had no idea who I was?"

John gave a defensive little shrug. Mrs. Hudson, watching the proceedings, smiled secretly and decided to rescue him. "'Fraid I'm not here for long, though - neither are you, really, what with that big audition today, loves. When do you leave?"

Sherlock glanced quickly at his watch. "About five minutes, actually, if the London transit system is to be trusted."

"Ooh, glad I decided to pop in early, then. I'll be needing that key back -" Sherlock was already moving off, tearing himself away from their small circle to rifle through his belongings. He took the envelope from his coat pocket and whisked around to hand it back.

She shook it a little, tilting her head up at him. "And it contains all the -"

"Key, lease papers, my signature, yes," he finished.

"Have to be sure, you understand." She gave a little sigh, looking around the wide room for herself. "I do wish you didn't have to leave it, Sherlock. You've been a good tennant."

John snorted at that, and Sherlock kicked him lightly in the shin while Mrs. Hudson's back was still turned.

"It was nice, the old place still getting some use. The developers will probably have at it now. A funny row of offices will be here before you know it," she said, once she'd come back around to face them. But she shrugged, the momentary melancholy falling from her shoulders like an old cloak, and gave a tittering little laugh. "_C'est la vie_."

"Indeed." Sherlock wished it were that easy, to shake the strange, hollow sensations that stole over him in the wake of her words. It had never, he thought, catching sight of John's downturned face in the corner of his eye, been a problem before.

"Well, goodbye, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, when no one had made any move to speak for a sufficient amount of time. _Go away now_, he hoped it said, very clearly.

Perhaps too clearly. "Sherlock," John muttered, nudging into his side.

But Mrs. Hudson laughed again, waving her hands. "Never one for goodbyes, he was. Come on, give us one more hug. Who knows when I'll see you again?" With a small sigh, he allowed - briefly - his eyes to close, his memories of comfort and safety to rise up around him her well-remembered hands.

John wasn't smiling when he came up, but there was something gone soft in the dark, dark blue of his gaze.

"Lovely to meet you," John said, stepping in. The hand he held out was disregarded for another hug as well - one he returned with much more ease.

"Thank you for dancing with my Sherlock," she said under her breath, and patted his upper arm. "We always knew he had it in him, didn't we?"

The corner of John's mouth tugged upwards, as he flicked a glance aside at Sherlock. "Always."

Something in the word caused him to flinch. He stepped quickly away from John, feigning rummaging further in his luggage, but all the while he could barely move for the shaking in his hands. What was _wrong_ with him?

They watched him in a strained silence. "Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson said at last, but it sounded like a question. Behind her, Sherlock closed his eyes.

A loud horn from outside cut through their conversation, much to his relief. He turned to see Mrs. Hudson clasping her hands before her chest. "That'll be your taxi. Break a leg, and I expect tickets to your first performance."

"I haven't even -"

"Now, now," she tutted, already moving away. "Don't do that, it's bad luck."

Sherlock looked to John, who shrugged. "She's right," he agreed, but he was grinning. He gave Sherlock another nudge, this one far gentler than before. Sherlock shrugged away, but John didn't seem to notice. "Come on, let's go."

They grabbed their suitcases and, waving their final goodbyes, moved for the door.

"I can't believe you never told me that your-landlady-Mrs.-Hudson is the same as famous-ballerina-Mrs.-Hudson," John hissed through his teeth as they were leaving. "I remember watching her on the telly when I was a kid, _jesus_."

At his side, Sherlock shrugged. "There are many things," he said slowly, "that I don't tell you."

John's footsteps hesitated, but only for a second. Then he pushed resolutely on ahead.

But as John moved out the door, Sherlock took a moment to look back. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the middle of the room, looking up at the ceiling. In all that empty grey space, with the light and shadow falling down around her, she seemed very small. Sherlock wondered, for a moment, what John had seen all those times he'd walked into the room and seen Sherlock in much the same position. If Sherlock had also seemed very small.

Mrs. Hudson caught his eye. "Why," he asked, voice booming between them for all the words felt very small, "did you stop dancing?"

The hint of a smile spread over her lips. "You'll find out," she answered. "One day. We all do."

Before he could ask for a better answer, the horn was honking again, John was yelling back at him about train schedules, and Mrs. Hudson was turning away.

* * *

Curled into the chair, his knees wedged up against the seatback in front of him - because apparently the trains had never before imagined such a concept as legroom - Sherlock should not have been comfortable. But the rhythmic rocking of the car was like the low undertones of music, and John's shoulder was warm and soft against his head, and he fell asleep tracing out their audition's choreography over the back of John's hand.

But John was nudging him into wakefulness what seemed like only moments later. "Five minutes," he murmured, brushing his lips through Sherlock's hair. "Almost there."

"You shouldn't have let me sleep," he mumbled, eyes still closed as he relaxed in the warm and pleasant darkness. "I'll be groggy for our - for my audition."

A chuckle from up above. "People can't actually go 24 hours without sleep and be fine. And I know for a fact you didn't sleep much at all last night."

"Your fault."

"Only partially."

Sherlock made a grumbly noise and lifted his head, peering out blearily at the city. They'd left behind grey London for a rainier day in Paris, and as the train whisked by it was impossible to see much beyond the fog and drab buildings and wet streaks glazing the windows.

"Have you ever been to Paris before?" Sherlock asked, and leaned his head against John's.

John leaned back. "Cheekbone-y bastard," he muttered, and then, "No. My first time. Thank you."

Sherlock rolled his neck, squinting up at John with sharp eyes. "Thank me?"

Beneath his head, John's shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "All expenses paid trip to Paris? I never would have had a reason without you."

Sherlock snorted. "You've performed all over the world."

"D.C., Boston and a short stint in Barcelona don't really count as 'all over the world.'"

"I've never been to D.C. or Boston."

"Yes, so it would seem like a whole new world to you, wouldn't it?" John mused. He smoothed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead, letting it fall limply back into place before he did it again. Sherlock blew out a breath at him, and John snorted before leaning down to kiss him.

As soon as John's lips met his, it was as if he'd stolen all the warmth, all the comfort of darkness. A chill slid down his spine instead, and he _remembered_ just what this was, just what they were counting down to as the train began to slow, slow, slow into the station.

_You don't,_ Lestrade's words came flooding back to him, _want to lose something like that_.

_John_.

Sherlock's eyes flew open as John leaned away, but he was still caught with John's hands on the side of his face. He knew those hands, he thought, and the care those worn thumbs took in tracing his cheekbones, his nose, was almost painful.

"I'll show you all my favorite spots in D.C.," John said, bringing their foreheads together. "Right down the street from the competition there's this one 'English-style pub,' they call it, but the fish and chips aren't half bad. I can't wait to see you with grease all over your face and crumbs on your fingers."

Sherlock's eyes flitted downwards as John's chuckle warmed his face. His hands were fisted in the sides of John's jacket, the knuckles gone white, as if his grip there were the only thing keeping him being tossed side to side by the rumbling of the train over tracks.

As it slowed, their destination having arrived, he released John with a simple flex of his fingers. John was looking at him again, in that way that sent the cold creeping in even underneath his heavy coat. He stood, buttoning it up to his chin.

"Come on," he said stiffly. "The rain's going to worsen the traffic."

John's smile faded, slowly, and it seemed to draw even more of the color from the city in its wake. "Okay," he said. And then he repeated, as if to himself, "Okay."

Sherlock stepped off the train into Paris streets and heaved in a lungful of smoky, ancient air. With John still struggling behind him, their cases in hand, he took a minute to close his eyes and allowed himself a rare moment of fancy:

_He was arriving in Paris. He had been accepted into the ballet he'd been dreaming of for so long. The city was whirling indifferently by, there was music and talk and the sound of tires on wet streets, and Sherlock was just another of its number - but tonight he would dance in front of thousands, would be the someone he'd dreamed of being. He would breathe in the air of early morning and then again the air of evening, and he would wake up to do it all again, again, again, with dance in every step, until he'd been lost to time and this dream of Paris ancient as the air._

_And through it all he was alone, he was alone._

Sherlock opened his eyes. The city whirled indifferently by.

And then Sherlock made the slowest turn of his life. John was stepping out of the train, looking around with wide eyes that, when the light touched them, fractured into colors unnamed, unknown. They were eyes that soon fell to Sherlock. His face bloomed with a smile, beautiful and honest and entirely his own.

And Sherlock knew. He smiled back around the fissures gaping wide somewhere deep inside his chest, and he knew exactly what he had to do.

* * *

Sherlock had become quieter and quieter the longer their journey persisted. John was used to his silences - they'd gone entire rehearsals where Sherlock, his narrow face frowning in concentration, hadn't spoken a word. But there was something different about this, John knew. He could see it every time he glanced across the cab.

Sherlock being silent was not the same as Sherlock being _quiet_, and this was Sherlock gone quiet. He was folded into himself like some sort of abyss, there in his charcoal coat with only the edges of his messy hair peeking above the collar. All his energy, all the sparking light of his eyes and his being that infuriated and captivated John in turns - it had all drained down to this, to a Sherlock who tracked the paths of raindrops on the windows and was biting his lip white.

The only other space larger than the one Sherlock now inhabited, John reckoned, was the one resting in the gulf between them.

John put out his hand, resting it tentatively over Sherlock's.

Sherlock did nothing so obvious as drag it away, but John could feel the tremors running under his skin.

John could feel his face drawing down, settling into stone. Perhaps it was just Sherlock's form of nerves. Maybe, he hoped desperately, that was it. John was certainly nervous, and this wasn't even his audition.

But, for all that Sherlock could be sensitive to the compliments and critiques alike that John had showered over him on any number of occasions, he'd never known him to be anything but utterly confident in his abilities as a dancer. No, and something in John's gut told him, brutal and cold - this was different.

For a long time, John mirrored Sherlock's position. Their hands were the one tentative connection, warmth in the midst of all this cold and all this dark.

And then John spoke, softly, without saying a world.

He feathered his fingers over Sherlock's, spreading them palm to back of hand. He could feel Sherlock still. Processing.

Encouraged, he then slipped his fingers around, cupping the side of Sherlock's hand. He flipped Sherlock's hand and drew a thumb down the line of his palm. In reflex, Sherlock's fingers flared.

John stopped, just to rest in the weight of the response. _Yes._

Sherlock's head had turned fractionally back to him, away from the foggy window. He was breathing in shallow, even rhythms.

John's fingers, where they were tapered against the tendon's in Sherlock's hand, tapped out a beat. Twitching, Sherlock's fingers had no choice but to do the same pattern.

John folded his own hand over Sherlock's and then smoothed it upwards, laying the fingers flat. Then he touched their fingertips together - index, middle, ring, pinky.

Of its own accord, Sherlock's thumb reached up, seeking the thin point of contact with John's. As their thumbs touched, John dragged his eyes upwards to see Sherlock, staring at him so intensely he might as well have been trying to stare inside him.

"What," Sherlock asked, "are you doing?"

John wet his lips with his tongue. "Dancing."

Sherlock shook his head, just slightly. "No."

Looking back down at their hands again, John let a soft sigh slip out. And then he let the fingers still steepled against Sherlock's fall to their side. They landed in the spaces between each of Sherlock's spindly fingers, and the both of their hands naturally locked into place. Intertwined and solid. He saw, from the corner of his eye, Sherlock sharply drop his head.

He gave a thin pant of breath as he involuntarily squeezed John's hand.

And when he lifted his eyes, bright and so _open _John thought his heart would break with it, he took his other hand and danced it over the side of Sherlock's face, till it rested safely against his cheek. "I'm trying to tell you something." His eyes dropped to Sherlock's lips, to the thumb pressed beneath the shadow of his cheekbones, went back to hold his gaze. "Do you understand?"

John wouldn't get a real answer until they were only seconds away from Sherlock's audition. The cab had brought them to the _Palais Garnier_, they'd been ushered too quickly through the jaw-dropping foyer with its ornate red and gold furnishings, up one side of its double-staircase and down, down, down again into the dressing rooms, and from there to backstage - and all the while Sherlock had been poised on the breath of words that wouldn't seem to come.

He'd walked up behind Sherlock as he was peeking through the curtains - watching the last performers and drafting a checklist of all they'd done wrong, no doubt.

As Sherlock peeked through the curtains, the light spilled across him, waterfalling down the bare line of his back. It fell into the shadows and was lost, just as every supple, muscular curve of his glowing skin was cast into sharp relief. John caught his breath.

He watched Sherlock stretch, flex, then descend into a _plié__,_ all the while dappled in the blinding stage lights. His eyes never strayed from whatever Sherlock watched, out there beyond the velvet curtains separating them from -

_Well_, John thought, his eyes flicking up to Sherlock again, lost in his own thoughts as he was. _Separating them from everything_.

In dance, John could always be certain that, when Sherlock ran ahead, John would be there to catch him. In anything else, not so much. Sometimes Sherlock understood things so much faster than he did.

He threw his shoulders back, regarding Sherlock for one long moment, capturing the memory of genius at the apex of its element. And then he stepped forward and laid a hand on his back, catching up at last.

"You okay?" he said, asking a very different question. Sherlock was warm to the touch, so very alive. There were very few moments in which it was more obvious how human, how alive, Sherlock Holmes had become than in the moments he was with John just as they were here and now.

Sherlock had turned and was looking at him, his face expressionless but something moving intensely in that gaze. And then it was as if all of him relaxed as one. A smile unfurled across his face, and it was, John thought, far, far too sad for a man about to get everything he'd ever wanted.

Sherlock dove forward, murmuring "Yes," and clumsily pressed those downturned, desperate lips to John's forehead. He held him there with a hand to the back of John's skull as if John would disappear the moment he let go. His throat tight, John brought his other hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and breathed quietly against Sherlock's neck. Faint sweat, tobacco, resin - same as ever.

He felt Sherlock's hands sliding away, coming up instead to crush John's chest to his own, almost clinging. John found it difficult to breathe, but didn't say so. There were more important things.

Sherlock finally released him, almost on a gasp, when an attendant came by to let them know they would soon be called on. But he was still looking at John. Like before in the cab, John held out his hand. But he knew what answer he was waiting for.

Sherlock's fingers slipped between his own, and they waited.

The judges dismissing the last performers. The shuffling of paper, scratching of pens.

Silence.

The rise of the curtain.

* * *

They strode forward on quiet feet, the wooden blocks in Sherlock's pointe shoes clicking dully on the stage. Once at center, they stopped.

"Sherlock Holmes? _Qui est votre cavalier?_"

The voice boomed down around them, its source impossible to find in the impenetrable black of the theatre. But Sherlock's voice rang out clearly, lancing through the darkness with a quiet confidence.

"_Oui. Je danserai avec _John Watson."

Someone coughed. More papers were rifled. In the silence, John stared straight ahead beside him, his arms relaxed, taking quiet breaths in and out. Sherlock fought down a ridiculous urge to smile.

And wasn't that ridiculous in itself, he thought, as the smile faded. Because John made him _want _to smile, and here he was, about to dance with John, about to do the one thing that made him happiest of all, and all he could feel was -

"We've asked you to prepare a _pas de deux_. Do you know why?" came a different voice, speaking in English.

Sherlock's eyes slipped shut.

A partnered dance, and the irony of it was that all he could feel was the moment of losing the grip of a partner's hand. Spinning out into the dark. All he could feel was _loss_.

"Obviously," he bit out at last. He saw John's head drop from the corner of his eye, shaking wearily from side to side. But he was smiling. This one, bright thing in all the dark.

_Oh, John_.

With every beat of his heart - racing, now - he knew what had been decided, knew what he had to do. Their question caused it to stumble in its furious pace. He didn't dare answer, not when he knew that would be like grinding it into the dirt beneath his heel.

There was another short silence, and then a sigh warbled towards them. "Care to humor us with an explanation?"

He closed his eyes, sighed, snapped them open. "I imagine you're aware of my reputation. That, combined with the complexity, the art, of the _pas de deux_ all on its own, and what it would allow me to demonstrate, is probably -"

"Mr. Holmes," interrupted a third voice, English but accented thickly Parisian. "I think what my colleague is trying to ask is more: what have you learned?"

Again: obvious. They wanted to know he could be trusted. They wanted to see that he'd changed, he thought desperately. They wanted -

_John, laughing at him as they spun down from that first carry, the first one they'd ever done together. The yellow-glass glitter of a sunset over John's hands, as they pushed him, prodded him into positions for the hundredth, thousandth time in their determination. Shoulders strong enough to frame him in the air lying soft and vulnerable on cotton sheets, in the clutch of sleep_. John, standing there now, questions in the very air around him but still constantly at Sherlock's side. Still constant.

"I have learned," he said, as the onslaught of images burned away like ash in his mind, "what it means to have a partner, and to be a partner. And how much more it means to dance with someone than to dance alone." There. The ash now out on his tongue.

Sherlock was too busy staring at John to bother listening to the intervening stillness. His attention returned with another drawn out sigh from one of the judges. "Very well, Mr. Holmes. Whenever you're ready."

Neither of them needed to say a word.

John let go of his hand and left the stage to Sherlock.

He was alone.

Sherlock turned, lifting his face to the warmth of the stagelights like something in bloom.

He flared his arms toward the ceilings far above, arced like parallel sails waiting for a moment of pale wind, his face downcast.

He paused in a perfect silence. He breathed. Was still.

And then with the opening trio of notes, he began. His legs firmly in place, his arms outstretched: he reached for things only he could see, lingering up there in the dark. The music beckoned, pulled at him, spurred him along as it grew. Under its hands he began the series of _entrechats_, legs flitting in a quick back-and-forth beneath him. He landed softly and immediately struck out, bold arm extended before him as he thrust himself into the _piqué_turns.

Each turn in the chain was bigger than the last, three in quick succession, and then the pattern repeated. A grand man alone on a wide, grand stage - but it was as if Sherlock were waiting for something; this was the hesitation, the quickening pace of the heart in knowing just what was to come. He could feel it in the way they'd shaped the piece. His own heart began to pound in sympathy, and then -

A thrill arced through him as the second line erupted. On cue, he swept upwards from the waist, and there, _of course_, there was John, for the moment of pursuit.

From opposite ends of the stage, their hands, fingers flared, reached for one another.

The look on John's face - desperation, longing, need - was breathtaking.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and cast himself away, a series of small steps that led again into the three turn combination. He could hear John coming closer, launching into the turns with him in careful mirror. No longer a private dark, this was a shared space, shared song, two lonely people now broaching a shared existence.

Sherlock folded gracefully to one knee, the other leg extended out before him. He leaned over it, halving his body as his extended arms fleetingly touching the stage, before he once again leaned back -

John had stepped forward and, as the music intensified and Sherlock let himself fall, caught him about his torso. Together they sprung upwards, Sherlock unwinding to his full height with one knee tucked in tight. But sinking back into the circle of one of John's arms, Sherlock was balanced only on the toes of his own foot and the biceps, triceps folded firmly against his back.

For the first time he turned his head and caught one of John's downcast eyes, lit sapphire beneath the stagelights, and relaxed into the hold completely. Briefly, John's fingers flexed against his spine.

This was something so much more intimate than shared _space_.

The next beat came fast - John levered Sherlock back to upright and almost immediately Sherlock switched his feet: the folded leg straightened, the other swept upwards into an _arabesque_, and one arm reached forward with the other stretched back. Flawlessly aligned. John's hands kept him steady, steadier still as the leg curved behind John's back. _Attitude derrière_, elongated as John's hands on his waist allowed him to lever lower, low enough to nearly sweep the ground with his long fingers.

He came up and was left alone, John suddenly tearing himself away for his _tour jeté_. Sherlock watched the solid ripple of his thighs as John rocketed into a jump, turning in midair while his legs kicked and split wide. A moment of pure triumph. His gentle, one-footed landing found him staring at Sherlock, the same expression naked on his face, his arms held wide open as he sunk to one knee.

_Come to me_.

Choreography willing or not, there was hardly a choice. Sherlock was chasing after him, the pursued to become the pursuer. Because that was what they had done, wasn't it, he realized as he began the turns into a small leap, ending with his hands on John's proffered forearm.

And when he turned to find that same steady strength behind him, the hands on his waist as daring and as firm as the first time, precious in the last, there was no doubt: they had choreographed a seduction, and no one danced it better than they did. Sherlock succumbed.

A pain that had nothing to do with his feet or the straining muscles of a body well-trained unfurled beneath his chest as he realized what was coming: these were the steps borrowed from what they had practiced that first time he'd slipped into John's class. These were the two small steps together, the supported lift, faint imprints of something wary and bright left in traces behind them. Laughter, the laughter of burgeoning friendship. John had thought him rather mad the first time, he supposed.

But how he'd laughed.

He rose from a tilt, switching to grasp John's other hand, arms outstretched. They were a tentative link between them as they began careful, tandem movements. Predator and prey become two circling predators each, he'd described during one practice. John's eyes never left his own as he struck forward in quiet, broad paces. A breath between each one, Sherlock stepping back in parallels - always the same distance between them.

And now he had to grow it, he thought, as John pulled him in almost impossibly close for the partnered steps, just before Sherlock would strike out on his own again. This fleeting moment of togetherness before -

John's eyelashes against his cheek. A whisk of hand along the small of his back. Sherlock's breath in the space of John's before John gently turned him around and they took off.

John's hands at his waist levered him into the air, Sherlock's legs pressed wide in splits: great leaps he could never accomplish on his own, as John set him down carefully only to send them off in the other direction. Down into the fold he went as one knee touched the ground, foot splayed at an elegant horizontal before him, but again John helped him back to standing, leading them backwards with purpose once more.

This was it, he thought now desperately. John's eyes were fast on his; Sherlock could almost hear his thoughts as they counted their paces, could almost feel the shaking in those worn hands where they were still stuck fast together.

Sherlock's character was the one to break away. His uncertainty had made itself present in every shimmering moment Sherlock found the choreography leading him away from John and out into the dark on his own. He was the one who resisted, evaded and took. So now he spun, spun _away_, moving dangerously close to the edge of the stage.

And this was the moment even John would not pull him back. A choice being given, and John's quiet stance never wavering at the far end of the distance between them.

The moment of conflict: Sherlock erupted in motion. A demonstration of technical skill, certainly, these were _grand battements_ with his leg kicked high and _sissone ferm__ée_ in its leaping back and forth all for a _tour de force_, worked in for the benefit of Sherlock's performance.

But the wedding of this mastery of mind with the baring of soul - that was dance.

_I do not have to pretend_.

The plastered smiles of his youth, the frozen stiffness of his ribs like wintry iron bars around any fiery warmth he might have called his own - those were gone now, gone entirely, Sherlock erupting with song and joy. Each extension was an exaltation, each step a relief.

He turned back to John at the end. Decided. Arms outstretched.

Inside his ribs, something had set itself ablaze, was going up in flames.

And John came to him, flowering over in a series of his own modest combinations. Forest meeting fire, John's steady trunk against his back and the two of them preparing for the lift they'd practiced what seemed years, eons before.

How easy it was to paint agony in the guise of ecstasy as John thrust him upwards above his head, as if Sherlock were no burden at all.

Because even as he found the stage the music was building, tumbling over itself in a rush of madness toward the end. And they'd chosen a beginning for their end, sweet union marked by unison and quiet, partnered steps, but Sherlock was stuck with the sudden realization that it was nowhere near enough. This had been fight for affection, tooth and nail insinuating itself between the gentle codes of the _pas de deux_ in its original form, desperate chase followed by more desperate love.

It wasn't big enough.

And John, he knew, was so very, very big.

When he came out of the final set of turns, he rotated one step farther than anything they'd ever practiced. John's surprise was only evident in his eyebrows, rising just the slightest as Sherlock came back. "Deviation," he breathed.

Sherlock breathed back, "Trust me."

Sherlock might have been whispering and he might have communicated through the partial pressures of hands, but it didn't matter: _I will leap forward, you carry me down to the stage, _he said, and John did._ Again, the other side. Now the both of us at center stage, three steps forward each, cross forward then behind. Turn to me. Meet me._

_In everything you are._

Sherlock was running, running to the opposite side of the stage in a smooth dancer's stride, breath loud in his ears.

John stood, posed and frozen, at the other end.

Sherlock's arm extended with a flourish. His heart, pounding madly in his chest.

They had no time for hesitation. The climax was shaking itself from his bones, gathering in the floor beneath them, in the space to be breached. And this was the very last thing, the only thing, that Sherlock could give to John before he took everything else away.

John extended right back.

This, the moment of surrender.

Sherlock inhaled. Closed his eyes. Then he was running forward and leaping, feet leaving the ground in a powerful ascent, soaring through the air.

_No running leaps_, John had said.

And now, now this was John catching him, these were the utterly steady, entirely honest arms keeping him upright, glorious and spectacular and _right_. And here was John's face before him as John lowered him, their chests pressed tight together, Sherlock's arms shaking around his head, shoulders, spine as if he couldn't decide where to touch, and all the while John's grip around his hips ensuring he was held entirely whole and secure on his journey back to the floor.

They breathed the same air, mouths open and gasping, still tucked close. But the song wasn't over - with an effort, John nudged him around, taking hold of both their hands and spreading them wide from their bodies. He rolled him into the partnered steps they'd planned before, John circling his stationary spin in a _promenade_ that devolved into the graceful, linear stretch of Sherlock's leg behind him to his torso and the arm thrown to the audience.

Then Sherlock struck out again, the three _piqué _turns and their repeat, to parallel the beginning. And then the supported pirouettes, his arms in a first rising to fifth as John spun him faster, faster, faster, Sherlock never wavering on his powerful toes.

And then he unfolded, leaning back in John's embrace with one arm lying back across his shoulders. A final flourish of their hands curved above their heads - still reaching for one another - for the final beat, and then a triumphant, awestruck silence.

Sherlock couldn't stop his chest from heaving in a shuddering breath. John's face was flushed, his bare chest and upper arms patterned in a faint rose. Where he was braced against Sherlock's arm, slick with sweat, Sherlock's skin had turned that same red, little fingertips of warmth between them. Sherlock felt that if he looked up to their other intermingling hands above their heads, they would be on fire.

John's eyes, though, were glacial and still.

Sherlock wanted to kiss him, to breathe him, to consume him The world ending in fire and ice both.

Instead, they dropped to standing. The bowed. Finished.

It was all over.

Numb, Sherlock lifted his head to the darkness.

Silence again. Interminable and bleak. Then, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You'll have our decision by the end of the week."

Sherlock gave a brief nod, and then the two of them were escorted offstage by one of the attendants.

Back in the dressing room, Sherlock sat down gingerly. His legs felt boneless. The first twinges of pain were beginning to shoot up from his feet, but he ignored them. He sat, hands hanging between his spread knees. They were trembling.

Somehow still able to move, John was frenetic energy before him. Their positions, Sherlock would have thought wryly, at any other moment, oddly exchanged.

Now, though. _Now_.

Sherlock's thoughts were blazing, at any moment now they'd speed up even faster than he could understand, putting thought into action before he could stop it, which, of course, he couldn't be allowed, he had to go through with this and it had to be perfect or it wouldn't work at all -

"That was fantastic! Christ, the leap, it felt like you were shaking apart in my arms. And my catch wasn't half bad, I have to say. I can't believe we - But oh, those turns - gorgeous, you were gorgeous."

And then John was on his knees before him, suddenly filling his vision, blue eyes and warm hands. "That was it, you realize? There's no way you didn't make it?" He pressed his lips fiercely to the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock could feel him smiling.

How typical of John, not to realize that had nothing to do with Sherlock. Nothing, he thought, thinking of John's oak-steady support, at all.

Sherlock swallowed. "I know," he rasped, just as John crushed them together, his fists curled tightly against Sherlock's back.

"I'm so proud of you, love. So very proud." He laughed. He was so _happy_. "Happy birthday."

Sherlock's hands skittered over his bare back, uncertain where to rest, while his eyes stared unseeingly ahead. He knew every part of John so intimately now that as his hands skated over the flesh he could tell, _yes, here is where he likes to be touched so lightly it's barely touch at all_, and _here are the nine freckles clustered like the Pleiades_.

_You know just where to press_.

Sherlock took a deep breath. His hands went firm, solid against John. Memorizing. And then he pushed him away.

"You can stop touching me now."

John froze. Slowly, he drew back. He raised an eyebrow. "O-kay," he said, still slow. The brightness lingered in his eyes, but the longer he stared at Sherlock, the faster it seemed to fade. "A little sensitive after a dance, are we?" he tried playfully.

"No," he bit out.

Now John frowned. "I just wanted-"

"I know what you wanted," Sherlock snapped. Abruptly he rose, pushing past John to the opposite side of the room. He held his hands in front of him to disguise their shaking, and even though his feet were aching he forced himself to stay standing at the far end, spine straight.

His heart was rattling around in his ribcage, pressing up against his bones in a panic. "You wanted," he said again, under the cloying rush of it in his ears, "to touch greatness, the way you always have."

His only answer was a long, heavy silence. He pushed on. "But, you know, I realized as we were dancing. Those complaints you voiced at the beginning - they were all right. Because the only reason you'd want to touch greatness is if you had none yourself."

He willed himself to anger, turning on John. "Your injury, your age; yes, those kept you from it, but you can't blame them for a lack of talent. I sought you out all those weeks ago because I was desperate, and you suited fine. But this just won't do now. Not in Paris. I'll have a reputation to uphold, though I suppose I'd be willing to continue our association in secret. On a sexual level only, you understand, as you are good for something there."

John started like he'd been slapped. He swallowed, his jaw clenched, and asked, "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock barked a laugh. "That's just what I'm talking about. I don't need an idiot tailing behind me, dragging me down."

John gave a minute shake of his head. "No, I mean - I don't believe you. You, or any of that other _shite_."

"Have you ever known me to be anything but truthful before?"

"No, but I do know you better than this," John said, and now a harshness had crept into his tone. But it shifted, something vulnerable flying over his face before he steeled himself against it. "I know I do."

Sherlock smiled, saw John flinch. "Perhaps you're wrong."

"No, I'm not!" John exploded, and then he immediately balked, passing a hand over his face and shrinking. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout at you, I just -"

For a long moment he stood with one hand on his hip, the other shading his eyes, breathing hard. "I don't know what you're playing at, but don't pretend you can lie to me, not after that dance we just did. I know you, Sherlock Holmes, I love you, and I know that bloody well terrifies you but you can bloody well deal with it, because at the moment I'm fairly terrified myself."

He laughed. This time, it was as if all the happiness had been stolen from the sound, and it rang hollow in their ears. "How did we even get here?"

Sherlock kept his mouth shut.

When John spoke next, it was soft and resigned. "You do this sometimes, where you throw me for a loop and I don't know what - I don't ever know what you want from me."

"Nothing," Sherlock found himself saying.

And it was true. Nothing but for John to be, to exist, in as close a proximity to Sherlock as possible. Sherlock couldn't want anything from him - John had already given him everything.

That was the problem.

With the flicker of hurt across John's face, though, Sherlock knew John had taken it the only way he'd meant him to.

"Let me get this straight, then. After working together non-stop for the past four weeks, after being together for the last two, you think we should just - stop?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"After everything we worked for, you just… were you ever even planning on coming to Internationals?"

Sherlock's gaze darted quickly away. "I'll still honor our deal."

John smiled, grim. "That's all this is to you, then? A deal?"

Sherlock's words, thrown back at him after all this time, caused his head to shoot up. Looking at John he knew, just _knew_, that John would never believe him - not in that way of knowing he had, in his ability to read people by all the little details hovering about them in their mundanities, like being able to tell the origin of a ballerina's training from her muscle tone or the age of a dancer from his leotard, but in the way other people knew things, silly little things like _I love you_ from the way two people moved together, or _You are breaking in my heart_ in the way they moved apart.

This, John couldn't do by himself. All it would require of Sherlock would be his turning away.

He almost laughed at himself, sharp and bitter. 'All,' like it was the easiest thing in the world. He looked at John, very long and very hard. _Just like this_. Then, slowly, he blinked, and turned his back.

"Sherlock," John tried. He heard a tentative step forward, then a step back.

Sherlock said nothing.

"Please."

He closed his eyes.

John gave another of those empty little laughs. "You always do this. You can't even just _talk_ to me. Fine, I just - Should I… do you even want me to stay, or -?"

Sherlock shrugged. John swallowed.

"Sherlock," he said again. Sherlock refused to call it begging. John couldn't be allowed to beg.

_Get angry_, he pleaded. _Stop being flattered_, he'd said once to John, _and be bold. Be brave_. Sherlock had never felt more like a coward than with John cowering behind him now, when he could almost hear the way John's shoulders were slumped forward and his hands, which would be twisted into fists at his side, would come to unfurl, weak and empty, the air about him humming with resignation.

"This isn't you," John said finally. "And I don't know what's happened, or what's happening." He coughed, clearing the rasp from his throat. "I don't think I ever will, not unless you tell me. But I'm not going to force you. I do know you, Sherlock, know you because I've danced with you, and I know it's impossible to stop you and just as impossible to hold you back. So, if that's what you want. If this is really… I'll just… go."

It was almost a question. Sherlock refused to let his head drop like a nod of affirmation.

He could hear John moving around behind him, in the stale silence that followed. Grabbing his things, moving gingerly into his coat sleeves, the shuffling slide of his feet.

Slowly, he became aware of the hand on his back. Warm, strong, but resting like something fragile and delicate between Sherlock's shoulderblades, that could flit away at the slightest of words.

"I'd like it if you came back to me," said John, and his voice sounded choked and wet.

"I," Sherlock said eventually, once he'd gained control of his own speech, "will see you in D.C."

A faint rustling. John was nodding. "Thank you," he said, and inhaled deeply, just before the touch vanished and quick steps carried John Watson out the door and out of his life.

The room sang with stillness.

Sherlock took in a measured breath, then another, allowing them to draw up his spine. Gingerly, he walked back to the bench. If he'd felt numb before, he didn't know what to call this feeling now.

His rubbery fingers struggled with the laces of his pointe shoes. When they at last gave way, they revealed cracked skin, blood seeping through where the fabric had chafed, his toes turning an ugly red where the wood had rubbed them too raw.

It didn't hurt at all.

Sherlock allowed his mangled feet to drop back to the floor and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, and the pain in his chest unfurled like someone dancing in the dark.

* * *

_**Palais Garnier**__ - the opera house where the Paris Opera Ballet performs_

_**piqué turns**__ - traveling turns done on one leg, pointed forwards in quick succession, while the other is bent and pointed toward the opposite knee._

_**Attitude derrière **__- one leg supports while the other is lifted in a certain direction at a 90-degree angle; __**derrière **__is what identifies this attitude's direction as being behind the body_

_**tour jeté**__ - a leap characterized by its start on one foot and the half-turn done whilst in the air to land on the other foot._

_**tour de force**__ - demonstration of technical skill with a series of complicated, interesting steps_

_**grand battements**__ - the raising of the working leg, held straight, high above the head while the hips remain quiet and steady to give the impression of supple ease._

_**sissone ferm**__**ée**__ - a quick, springing leap characterized by its start on two feet in the plié position and the throwing of the working leg in any direction to land on the supporting leg in a mirroring demi plié_

_**promenade**__ - the dancer turns slowly on one foot with the other raised in an attitude, arabseque, or other definition position. In pas de deux, the partner often assists with the turn while the other is en pointe_


	9. Chapter 9

_Friday, January 8th_

* * *

The company wouldn't open for several hours yet. The clanking of the heavy door behind him, the echoes it sent out into great, empty space - once those had faded, its silence returned. Even the dawn falling through the skylights was hushed, skating down over the walls in muted rose and pearl before it, too, vanished into darkness.

Sherlock's bag slid from his shoulder and he walked, shedding coat and scarf as he went, until he arrived in the middle bare but for the thin t-shirt over his spine, the tattered leggings. That and the watch on his wrist telling him three hours yet before the rest of the company would trickle in and rehearsal would officially begin.

Well. Three hours in the lonesome dark with nothing but a stage to himself. Better than sleeping, or the not-sleeping, as it was. Better, even, than thinking had become.

He'd searched and searched, probing in the dark, but his mind palace was… gone.

Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed them at a point somewhere on the distant wall, set his stance, and began to turn. Again, again, again.

* * *

**From: Gregory Lestrade**  
**Date: Saturday, January 9th, 2010**  
**To: John Watson**  
**Subject: He did it!**

_Hey, John. Just wanted to pass along my congratulations. Well, mine and Beth's - she won't stop talking about you two and how I 'owe her' for her part in the 'master plan,' whatever that's all about. I was thinking we ought to come down for a visit, maybe before the French start taking up all of his time. Celebrate a little. Though I know you're both probably eager to enjoy Paris by yourselves for a bit…_

_Just let us know._

_Best,_

_Greg xx_

John stared at the e-mail message from Greg from his place on the train. Outside, the conductor was making the last call for boarding as he walked through the first faint fall of snow, the grime of Paris streets mixing with the ice beneath his feet in a frozen, gritty slush. John's eyes swept the platform, skirting the faces of strangers in their heavy coats and scarves.

They were all just that: strangers.

His gaze fell back to his laptop, to his cursor blinking with expectation in the reply field. He closed the lid, just as furls of oily grey smoke coughed along the tracks and the train began to lurch away from the station.

* * *

**From: Gregory Lestrade**  
**Date: Friday, January 15th, 2010**  
**To: Sherlock Holmes**  
**Subject: ?**

_Radio silence from John. Any idea what that's all about? Or are you two too busy? ;) (Beth says that's a winky face and I should use it here. I don't know what it means but it's kind of cute.)_

_Anyway, I asked him, but I'll ask you as well - I was thinking about taking Beth down to Paris to see you two before the Ballet starts back up again. Sound alright? Tuesday maybe?_

_Hope you're both doing alright xx_

* * *

**From: Gregory Lestrade**  
**Date: Monday, January 18th, 2010**  
**To: Sherlock Holmes**  
**Subject: ?**

_I got a message from your crazy brother yesterday. I'm tempted to believe what he's saying is just as crazy. Mind telling me what's going on?_

**[MESSAGE NOT SENT - RECIPIENT ADDRESS INVALID]**

* * *

**From: Gregory Lestrade**  
**Date: Monday, January 18th, 2010**  
**To: Sherlock Holmes**  
**Subject: Re: ?**

_Well, I'm assuming you've taken the deal if your English National address isn't working. I'd appreciate if you kept me updated on where you're at now. _

**[MESSAGE NOT SENT - RECIPIENT ADDRESS INVALID]**

* * *

_From: Lestrade - 12:42PM  
_Dammit I've been emailing you for days - not to mention teaching you for years, you git - only for you to drop off the face of the earth. Respond to a text at least, will you?

_From: Lestrade - 3:19PM  
_I haven't finalized plans yet, but Beth's going to be disappointed if I can't take her down to see you.

_From: Sherlock Holmes - 3:25PM  
_John is gone - SH.

_From: Lestrade - 3:26PM_  
Gone?! What do you mean gone?

_From: Lestrade - 3:29PM  
_Do you mean like that argument your brother mentioned?

_From: Lestrade - 3:35PM  
_Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God…

_From: Sherlock Holmes - 3:38PM  
_Thank you for your congratulations. Afraid I'm much too busy for a visit. Will send tickets to first performance - SH

_From: Sherlock Holmes - 3:39PM  
_Please do not attempt to contact John Watson again - SH

_From: Sherlock Holmes - 3:40PM  
_It will upset him - SH

_From: Lestrade - 3:41PM  
_Yeah I'll bet.

_From: Lestrade - 3:43PM  
_I don't know the details, but if you need to talk. Give us a ring, maybe give us one anyway?

_From: Lestrade - 9:00PM  
_Are you sure you're doing the right thing?

_From: Sherlock Holmes - 7:07AM  
_Of course. I have everything I've ever wanted - SH

Sherlock very carefully lowered his phone to his side. All the while his eyes stayed straight ahead, fixed on some point just above the murky fog of cityscape sprawled beneath his open hotel window, shifting in and out of the gloom like something lost then found, found and lost again.

On the table at his side, fluttering gently in the cold breaths of air sighing through the swaying curtains, lay the opened envelope. Inside its jagged edges: the sheaf of paper that was his official acceptance into the _Ballet de l'Opéra de Paris_. Not as a mere company member, no, but as_Étoile_. As one of their brightest stars. He'd gotten the phonecall almost a week ago, but the letter that arrived a few days later had cemented the deal. He'd done it.

Ahead of him lay a future, he knew, that had been waiting for him since the moment his fingers had first flexed over the rounded surface of the barre. All the cattiness he'd endured, the desperation, the agonizing efforts of brutally shaping the unwilling human body into a machine for his art - it had abruptly spilled over into this vast plane of reward. Reading over the contract left him with the impressions of dreams now made promises: creative control, full recognition, a career in full bloom. Personal dressing rooms, assistants, yes, it was all well and fine. Better than anyone in their profession could almost ever expect. But Sherlock was different, Sherlock would finally come into his own - to be consumed by dance, body and soul, and have everyone know it.

He had done it.

His eyes fell over the Eiffel Tower, barely a faint sketch in the distance, and he smirked. Before the Eiffel Tower had reached completion, achieved its status as the icon of Paris, it had been called ugly. It was a skeleton, they said, an industrial skeleton of iron and black, and it had no life to breathe with. Once, people had said the same of Sherlock.

Sherlock shuddered at the rare flight of fancy, the hand that wasn't holding his phone coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He hadn't been sleeping well, that was it.

Sherlock shut the window and closed the curtains, the faint music of the city dying out as he turned to the hotel room at his back.

Mycroft, sitting in one of the plush cream chairs before the fireplace, sighed. He was looking through Sherlock's contract, his red pen poised above the paper. "I do wish," he said lightly, flipping another page, "that you'd waited to consult me before signing your life away like this."

"What was the point?" Sherlock replied, a sharp edge to his voice. But he was too tired to summon up any real hostility - he'd spent all that on the moment Mycroft had appeared in his room an hour earlier, and now it was all he could do to sink into the chair opposite and try to rub away the headache that was swiftly growing behind his temples.

Mycroft's gaze was heavy on the side of his face before it fell back to the papers. "Look at this," he tutted, skimming one of the lines. "You'll have to switch to Capezio dancewear, and after all the investment we poured into Bloch."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sinking further into the chair.

"Posture, Sherlock," Mycroft said absently.

"What does it matter?" Sherlock snapped, craning his neck to glare at his brother. When Mycroft only raised an eyebrow, he flung his hands out in frustration. "I did it, I've done it, I'm a star in the ballet world and I'll be secure here for the rest of my professional life and beyond. What does any of the rest _matter_?"

Mycroft surveyed him critically. He folded his hands into his lap and, unexpectedly, looked down at them before speaking. "You do want to be..." he hesitated. "Happy, don't you?"

Sherlock snorted, returning his gaze to the ceiling. "And you think Bloch pointe shoes will make me happy." He was quiet a moment, then added, quieter still, "What do you care about my happiness anyway?"

"More than you know," Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock's face went still. The pops of burning wood, shifting in their bed of embers, filled the silence.

"John -" Sherlock's breath caught around the word, and he had to try again, carefully steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "John said that you convinced him to dance with me. Why?"

Mycroft was silent.

A frisson of irritation passed through his skin. "If you're saying it was to make me happy, then I fail to see how -"

"Getting you into the Paris Ballet was the goal. Yours, and mine. John Watson was a vehicle for carrying you there. I do not think, however -" here Mycroft paused, laying down the papers on the sidetable and leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, where he could stare at Sherlock with all the unblinking clarity of his blue eyes, "that this remains the case."

"What do you think, then?"

"Don't you know?"

Sherlock was vividly reminded of being six years old, their positions much the same in the library of the drafty old Holmes estate, with Mycroft's chubby hands thumbing through a dance book and making Sherlock recall the definitions for things his gangly limbs couldn't even do yet themselves. "It's for the best," Mycroft would say, laying a hand briefly over his shoulder on those rare days Sherlock came home from lessons, in tears for having forgotten something. Then he'd crack open the spine of a book and say, "Again."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Tell me."

"I think, in much the manner of the dance professional these days, the base has become so much more than that. I think," he tried, more slowly now, as if he were testing the words as they came, "there is something to be said of partnership."

"What about you?" Sherlock said after a long, heavy quiet. Even the fire was dying in its grate. "Your investments. Everything you've," he twirled a hand, "worked for."

"My dear brother," he said, getting to his feet. "I am a patron of the arts, not the British government. I can freely choose what - and whom - I support."

"Wasn't my presence supposed to help broker relations with the French?"

Mycroft gave him a withering glance. "You are not _that_ special, Sherlock." A faint dinging sounded from his pocket and he turned, fishing out his mobile and peering at the screen with a frown. "And if I recall, the reason you once rejected the Royal Opera was because you have a deplorable lack of interest in helping queen and country."

Sherlock smirked, just as Mycroft's words sparked something in him, a suggestion curling out of the innocuous statement to lodge like heavy smoke in his mind.

His throat was suddenly dry as he considered.

_A leap_, he thought back to John, heavy-soft hands cradling him back to safety, _of faith_.

"I can't just throw my, my life, my _work_ away for - for this man, for _John Watson_, I -" Sherlock was struggling through the words, as they lost themselves in the spaces between each beat of his quickening heart.

"Sherlock." His head snapped around, where Mycroft was now looking at him oddly, intensely. "No one is saying that you must."

Sherlock swung his feet to the floor, stalking up to his brother. For a moment, they stared at one another, and Sherlock saw that the challenge he'd expected to be lurking in Mycroft's gaze was far more plea than anything else.

"Do recall, however, that John Watson was willing to throw his life away on you."

Sherlock looked away, closing his eyes. He took an achy, shuddering breath. And then, just once, he nodded.

Mycroft sighed, dangling the phone. "Your old dance instructor is quite concerned. Ought we to alleviate his anxieties?"

Willingly, his hand stretched out, phone in his open palm. He lifted it like a question.

Sherlock bit his lip.

A trembling but determined hand reached out and took the phone.

_From: Mycroft Holmes - 7:19PM  
_Would Beth be too disappointed if you took a trip to America instead? All expenses paid by me, of course.

* * *

_Thursday, January 28th_

* * *

John laid aside the empty platter and its little spread of crumpled newsprint, and returned his gaze to the window.

Peering past the grim lines of his own reflection, John could see Pennsylvania Avenue whisking by, a little sluggish in the odd hours between lunch and when the workday would come to a close. London always tended to be a bit colder than D.C., but this year it seemed America was biting back with a vengeance, and everyone was even less eager than usual to find themselves outside. Those who passed by at all were bundled up to their chins, wrapped and huddled thick in their outerwear.

Sherlock, when he finally came into view, looked nothing different from the rest.

And yet.

John looked down at the coffee clutched between his palms for several long minutes. Then he lifted his head, squared his jaw, and regarded the lonely shape of a lover long lost on the opposite side of the street.

He looked his fill, running his eyes over Sherlock as if he were the one who was able to pick out all the little details of a man from sight alone. But as he watched Sherlock strode along the street, paused, threw his head up with the dark wash of curl falling over the side of his pale face, eyes blue and keen, sharp as the cheekbones with their little slices of shadow beneath.

And instead John began to wonder if maybe Sherlock was searching for a street sign, maybe looking for John's face in those of passing strangers; he wondered if the way those bay-eyes roamed was tired and restless as it seemed, because then maybe the plane had wearied him, and he probably hadn't eaten beforehand, knowing him, and the cold and the hour wouldn't help -

And then John had to stop, because he didn't know Sherlock, not really. Not now, and if he believed he had once, well. Sherlock had told him otherwise right quick, and that had been that.

In the three weeks since they'd seen each other last, John hadn't cried. Hadn't begged him back. He'd left the Palais Garnier, gone to their hotel for his things, checked himself into somewhere cheaper, and left for England on the first available train. He'd spent those first few nights gazing out at his smoggy strip of Paris - and, once back home, up at a darkened ceiling in a debt-ridden flat - wondering what Sherlock was doing, wondering if he maybe looked out on a similar sight with similar weight in his chest, similar regrets.

But that was a long time ago, it seemed. Though now, looking out at Sherlock unbelonging in a city not his own, John thought perhaps it hadn't been, and wouldn't ever be, time enough.

Across the avenue, Sherlock's eyes locked with his.

There were cars skating by, a city in motion, and those immovable eyes fast on his own.

He hadn't gotten to look Sherlock in the eyes, before.

Sherlock's face had changed, the emotions shifting across that pale expanse, but the cars cutting them off from one another passed too quickly for him to really see it. By then Sherlock was crossing the street, skipping up onto the pavement and coming to stand before him at the window.

John swallowed, his heart beating up through his throat, and under Sherlock's looming silhouette he jerked his head toward the door. Sherlock was still for a moment, and then he nodded quickly and spun on his heel in the direction John had indicated.

Behind him, John heard the city noises grow loud and then muted again with the opening and closing of the great wooden door. There were low voices, footsteps.

_Remember - he doesn't love you anymore_.

John's gaze flitted to the side, and he looked up.

Sherlock, there in the flesh, just inches away, staring down at him with an expression unreadable as ever. John could hear him breathing. John could feel his warmth.

He folded his lips into something like a smile. Soft and sad. "Hey."

"Hello." Sherlock's face didn't change as he said it, he just kept staring in a way that was both achingly familiar and unnerving.

John felt his eyebrows rise. "Are you… going to sit down?"

Sherlock's answer was to finally look away and move over to take the seat opposite John. He kept the coat on, but when he sat down he began to slowly, methodically strip off his gloves. Watching them, now, instead of watching John, the thin leather sliding from pale skin, he said, "How have you been?"

The fragile smile on John's face faded. "Please, don't. Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" Sherlock looked affronted. Was staring again. "Be polite? You always said -"

"Treat me like a stranger," John sighed, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms low in front of his chest, looking down at the table.

Sherlock had frozen on the other side of the table. Slowly, he lowered his gloves to his lap. He bit his lips, pursing them into something not a scowl and not a frown. "John, I -"

"We can't act like that if we dance together, and maybe that works for you all in ballet, strangers looking like they're madly in love," here Sherlock flinched, but John forced himself to lift his head and continue, "but swing is different, Sherlock."

John sighed, as if the painful thing lodged beneath his sternum would slip out with it. "If we dance we have to trust each other. I have to trust you, and you have to trust me."

Sherlock kept himself quiet, looking down at his folded hands. For the first time, John noticed that he looked ragged - not just the way he was hunched over now, looking as if he'd steeled the trembling line of his shoulders against the possibility of losing control entirely, but in the purple beneath his eyes smudged like a dark ink that spoke of a lack of sleep before he'd even set foot on a plane, the gauntness of cheeks so hollow John had noticed them from across the street. He frowned. Surely the French masters weren't abusing him that badly.

The only one who'd ever been able to take such poor care of Sherlock was Sherlock himself.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked, but it was a question with an obvious answer, and the both of them sat mired in the painful silence that followed.

"Let's get you something to eat," John said eventually, flagging down a waitress. And it wasn't until after she'd left that John was able to breathe deeply, flex his hands, and speak.

"I _can't _trust you, Sherlock. You -" he almost faltered, he felt the words falling apart on his tongue, but he pushed on, looking out at the almost empty streets. "You didn't ever trust me. We never really talked, did we, not about the things that mattered. And I kept thinking, maybe if we just danced…" He trailed off, bit his lip, and started again.

"But that was never going to be enough. And I've had time to think about it, Sherlock, and you were right, to end it when you did. If we couldn't, if we could never - maybe it was. It was for the best."

Sherlock was staring at him like a hollow thing.

John swallowed.

"So you've made up your mind, then?" Sherlock said, and his voice was stiff, his eyes unfocused. John wouldn't be surprised if he was already a million miles ahead of this conversation. Probably mapping the quickest way to win this, meet his end of the bargain, and head right back out.

But even that felt unfair. Maybe, once, he could have believed that of Sherlock. But he'd danced with him, laughed with him, slept with him and beside him, he'd - he'd loved him. And even if Sherlock said it had all been a lie, there was an aching, twisting part of him that refused to believe it.

The only problem were all the other parts, whispering that ballet had its own stages, and Sherlock was one of the greatest actors he'd ever met.

"Yes," John said, the word like a knife in his own gut, Sherlock's eyes even sharper where they rested, unwavering, upon his own. "Yes, I have."

He cleared his throat, drank coffee now cold and unpleasant, said hoarsely, "I'll imagine that makes you feel better. No, um, hard feelings, and all. I'm not - I appreciate you coming out here for me, but -"

He faded into silence as the waitress returned with Sherlock's food, a steaming plate of fish and chips. The knife in his gut hitched a little higher. He'd done it unthinkingly, when he ordered it, but he'd said it himself, all those weeks ago on the train. This is what he'd wanted of them, once - imagining them here in this pub, though, was very different to the way things had played out.

Sherlock's hands flared out over the rising heat, hesitated. "But?"

John wet his lips. "But, um."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You keep saying 'if.' 'If' we dance together."

"Because, well. In light of all that, I suppose…"

"Don't dally." Sherlock's voice was snappish and hard. Almost frantic.

"I've decided to cancel our entry."

Sherlock stared at him. Just stared and stared.

"In fact, I've done it already." The admission escaped him on a sigh, and he turned away toward the window again, feeling a little sick. "I called in this morning, and they just need me there to sign it in person tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Were you not listening?" John said, perhaps a little more harshly than he'd intended. Working to keep his voice down, he went on. "We're not strangers, and if we were there's no way we could do it if we tried anyhow. But we're also not - we were something. Something special. And I can't forget that, and I don't know if I can dance with you when I'm still -"

Sherlock refused to blink. "Still what?"

John grit his teeth. "Don't act like you don't know, Sherlock Holmes." _Spare me the last bit of your cruelty, please._

He frowned. "But you said -"

He finally snapped. "I've made up my mind, but that doesn't mean. Oh, hell, _you _probably wouldn't know - Jesus," he stopped himself, involuntarily pushing back from the table. He stood, shaking his head. Trying to focus on anything but the ghost sitting across from him at the pub. "Jesus, I'm sorry, I just - I don't even know what we are anymore."

"Partners," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock looked up, his hands still hovering in the middle distance. "Dance partners. That's what we are. That's why we have to do this."

The corners of John's mouth quirked, but there was nothing happy about it. "It's been three weeks. We're not even that anymore."

Those hands looked as if they were about to turn themselves over, extend, palm-up and plaintive - but instead Sherlock folded them back into his lap. Finally looked away.

John had shrugged into his coat and was throwing bills onto the table when Sherlock finally spoke. "Is this goodbye, then?"

He wavered. "Yes."

"Your money, the work we - we did, none of it…"

Around the cold feeling in the pit of his belly, he said, "I'll manage."

Sherlock was quiet, the stillness of his thinking charged. Then at last he said, "Goodbye, John," and met his eyes once more.

John caught his breath. He had to look away, couldn't believe what he was seeing, his problem was exactly that he could never believe a damn thing -

He turned, a stiffness to his spine. Over his shoulder, he said, "Goodbye, Sherlock," and walked away from him for the second time, the last time, leaving Sherlock Holmes behind like it wasn't the hardest thing he'd ever had to do in his entire life, and one he'd been made to do twice.

John wouldn't risk it a third time.

He pushed out into the bitter air, setting off down the street. He wasn't followed.

* * *

_Friday, January 29th_

* * *

"He's going to hate you."

"Shut up, Beth."

"Don't be rude." Before he could point out that she was the one who'd started it, she shrugged. "Besides, I was just saying."

"If it's obvious to you then almost without fail it's going to be obvious to me," Sherlock snapped. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and hoped that the way in which he steepled his hands in front of his face appeared very, very calm.

What with the hundreds of people droning about in the hotel lobby alone, the electro-swing blaring through the speakers at dozens of differing stations and Beth being _Beth_, Sherlock was having trouble focusing on the task at hand. Which was, of course, searching past Beth, the crowds and the music to spot a very ordinary looking, very unfortunately short man before he could do anything too monumentally stupid.

His eyes darted quickly to the side, quickly back to the competitors. "He hates me anyway," he admitted.

She'd had her hand propped glumly on her chin as she looked at the crowd along with him, but now she tossed him an incredulous look. "I doubt it."

"And yet you think he'll hate me now for really just doing what's best for him anyway?"

"You sound like your brother."

"Oh, God," Sherlock said, and put his head in his hands.

She snorted softly. "Drama queen."

"You sound just like your father," he retorted, the sound muffled behind his fingers.

She squirmed uncomfortably on the low wall, bringing her legs up and crossing them with a sigh. "Do you hate your brother?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I would like to stop comparing the way I feel about my brother to the way I feel about John._ Or _to the way John feels about me."

"Well," she said, and though she looked as tired and bored as he was, the smile she gave him was soft. "I was just saying."

The corner of his mouth turned up the slightest bit, and he was about to reply before the hairs all along his arms stood on end under the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Beth was looking past him to the doors, her eyes wide. Involuntarily, she smiled, but when she looked back to Sherlock it froze uncertainly on her lips, the gravity of this moment seeming to dawn across her face.

He slid down from the wall, turning around.

Sun slanted through the glass walls, aggressively cheerful, and Sherlock had to shade his eyes to see. But it was, without a doubt, John standing there in the spill of golden light, red caught in the shades of his hair.

John had stopped in the middle of the crowded lobby. His face betrayed absolutely nothing as he stared in complete stillness, and Sherlock, usually so able to pick out each and every emotion as it passed through John's expressive features, felt a cold fear grip him, hard.

But just when he was beginning to think this intolerable _staring_ would go on forever, someone bumped into John's shoulder and it was like he'd been knocked out of a trance: he apologized with a vague word or two, but his eyes were still fixed on Sherlock, distracted and uncertain.

Sherlock took a step forward. Didn't dare risk anything more.

John nodded subtly, and then he appeared to square his shoulders before beginning the long march over. By the time he was in front of Sherlock, the look swimming in his eyes was once again easy to read: there was that anger he'd suspected, mixed with frustration and something sadder, darker still.

Sherlock wanted to shake all that anger and defeat out of him until his teeth clacked. Wanted to kiss him until their teeth clacked together and John forgot what anger and fear and regret even were. Above all he wanted John to dance with him again, hold him, distill all their beautiful violences and desires and needs into a language they both understood, in the only way they knew how.

But this had ceased to be about him the moment John had decided to move on, if it had ever really been about him at all.

This, all of it - it was for John, he reminded himself. Every single thing. John may not have been willing to take him back, but Sherlock was damned if he'd let him go without repaying one last gift.

"What are you doing here?" John said, looking off to the side. "I told you we're canceling. I'm literally just on my way to sign off."

"Change of plans," Sherlock said on all the breath he'd been holding.

John's eyebrows knitted in the middle of his forehead. "Sherlock -"

"I made you dance with me, it's only fair." Made him stay alone in an expensive Paris hotel room, made him fly to America on a wasted trip - these were the least of his offences, money the least of their concerns.

But John seemed to understand. He laughed softly to himself. "Yeah," he said. "'Fair.'" Just then he lifted his head, surprise flitting across his face. "Beth."

She beamed, hopping down from the wall and installing herself beside Sherlock. "Hi, Mr. John."

"How've you been?"

She tilted her head up to look at Sherlock, mouth pulling into a thin line. "Been better," she said at last.

There was color spreading across John's cheeks, faint pastels so familiar Sherlock ached at the sight of it. "Are you, um. Practicing much?"

"Are you going to be teaching after the holiday's over?" she asked instead of answering.

Sherlock and John shared a look. "Probably not," he said after another lingering silence, and Sherlock closed his eyes in disbelief. This was devastation far beyond his own selfish scope.

There was so much that he'd ruined.

He turned to look down at Beth. "Will you rescue your father from where he's no doubt gotten himself lost in the concessions? John and I have floor tryout soon."

She nodded dutifully, all the while shooting him a look that made very clear just how she felt about being left out of this particular conversation. He only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes in response. What he wouldn't give, not to even _have_ this particular conversation.

But, seeing as it was his fault, he was also the only one who could put at least put some things to rights.

As Beth set off, vanishing quickly into the thick of the crowds, Sherlock laid a hand on John's arm and turned him in the opposite direction. He felt the resistance as it happened, so alien to their usual, instinctual responses to each other's bodies, and grimaced. He made his touch light, just a bare, guiding thing at John's elbow. "Come on," he said, more casual than he felt. "Dressing rooms are this way."

"Yes, I know," John replied, annoyed, and shrugged off his hand completely. But at least he kept walking. "What are we doing here, Sherlock? I told you yesterday: we can't do this."

"We can and you know it." He steered a clear path through the milling dancers and fans alike, talking as he did so. "You say you don't want us to be strangers. We're not, we have history. Fine. Let's dance like it."

John very nearly stopped again in the middle of the crowd. "You want us to dance like two people who don't trust each other."

Stung, he took a moment to reply. "Yes, that is essentially what I said."

"Yeah, I'm just a bit busy wondering in what world you think that's a brilliant plan."

Sherlock almost laughed - it got stuck in his throat, painful and too-large. _John_. He swallowed it down with an effort, and said, "I am still somewhat in your debt for," he coughed. "For getting me into the ballet. I must uphold my end of the deal."

"Were you even listening to what I said at the restaurant?"

"Yes."

"You know why I can't dance with you. Deal or not."

Sherlock didn't, not really, not beyond the fact that John was being exceptionally stubborn and had taken to shifting uncomfortably from Sherlock as if he were something venomous or feral. So he tried a different tack. He reached out, pulling them over to the side in a dark corner beneath one of the glass staircases. "I know you hate charity even more than you hate me, and if we don't dance then you'll find anonymous donations put into every single one of your accounts, every month, for the rest of your life."

"I don't hate you," John pointed out, and continued, "But if you think I'm going to be manipulated by you _again_ -"

"John," Sherlock said, the frustration and desperation burning through his veins like a potent, unforgivable cocktail. "Let me return the favor I promised you." A beat later, he added, "Please."

John's eyes were sharp on him, sharper than they'd ever been. "Why do you care so much?"

Just like that, the fire sizzled out into smoke. Weakly, Sherlock shook his head, unable to answer - not when John had moved on, not when Sherlock was in no position to ask for second chances after what he'd done, especially when to do so would destroy this one penultimate gift he could give John, right before the final one of moving out of his life completely. To become a ghost remembered only in the faint impressions of touches long gone.

When Sherlock didn't answer, John snorted, shaking his head right back at him in disbelief. But when he looked up again, it was with resignation resting in all those tired, beloved lines of his face. "I don't even have my costume."

Sherlock flashed him a thin smile. "Already taken care of."

* * *

John pulled at his tie with a grimace. "I can't believe we're doing this," he said lowly.

Sherlock, where he was reflected in the mirror, was frowning at the soft-soled shoes in his hand. His gaze flickered briefly over to catch John's before darting away just as fast. "Yes, as you've said about three times now."

John let out a ragged breath. "Forgive me for being just a little concerned about our ability to not fuck this completely up."

The snort from the other side of the room was amused. "Nonsense," Sherlock said. "Our warm up was fine, and besides -" John turned, to see Sherlock giving him another raised eyebrow. "I don't 'fuck things up,' John."

"Oh?" he muttered.

Almost imperceptibly, Sherlock went pale, and John immediately regretted saying anything. "Sorry, sorry - let's just. Let's just dance, alright."

Why had he never learned to deny Sherlock anything?

Sherlock was obviously uncomfortable about what had happened back in Paris, but he'd bet that had something to do with the fact that John was still clinging to his coattails when Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be rid of him. Why he'd pursued him all the way to America, then, was completely beyond John's understanding - but when it came to Sherlock, so many things were that he'd decided to just let this one lie. Get in, dance, get out. Sickly, he thought: _be rid of each other at last_.

He moved to push past Sherlock for the door, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait."

He opened his mouth, looked about to say something as the dull-dressing room light picked out all the uncertain shades in his eyes, but instead he stopped, and straightened. "Your tie," he said, and chuckled softly, like John was a marvel.

Remembering how they used to laugh together, just like that, was almost too much - but he nonetheless stood there while Sherlock's hands, careful, like John was an animal who'd spook away at the slightest brush, retied the knot at his neck. "There," he said, and with a glance upwards like a check for permission, smoothed it back down beneath his waistcoat.

John gave an experimental tug at his lapels. "Well?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

"How do I look?"

His eyes drew themselves upwards along the length of John's body. This wasn't, though, the usual calculating and objective stare he reserved for judgments of any other dancer they came across - John only just suppressed a shiver, remembering all too vividly every other moment in which Sherlock's eyes had trailed along his bare skin like that, tangible and present as touch itself.

"That question's a bit domestic, don't you think?" Sherlock said firmly, coolly, like he was slicing the words from his throat.

_Of course_. John balked, immediately turning and resuming his path for the door.

"John, wait -" Sherlock had caught him by the shoulder, turned him back viciously around.

"What, Sherlock?" he snapped, and was abruptly conscious that Sherlock had spun him into his personal space. Abruptly conscious of the soft, purpling flare of the shirt Sherlock had chosen, the way it complemented the delicate pink of his lips, the shockingly bright depths of his eyes.

"You… you look. It's, um. Good."

And now John was abruptly conscious not of how close they were physically, but in the cloying presence of Sherlock's desperation. Problem was, he thought, once again shrugging away - he had no idea what it was for.

Sherlock, again, leaving him behind in the dust.

_What do you want from me_, he longed to ask, but the time for that had passed. Sherlock had answered before: _nothing_. This, he reminded himself firmly, was all just as selfish as the last. John was collateral to whatever Sherlock's self-serving motives happened to be this time around. He understood that now.

But even knowing it, he couldn't stop the way his voice softened, and the softening in his chest he felt when he said, "You too."

And that, that right there, was why this was all such a terrible idea.

He turned for the door, feeling like a man on his way to be executed. "You ready?" he said over his shoulder, and he didn't wait for a response before fleeing the room.

They were among the last to make it to the great ballroom. The audience, hundreds upon hundreds of people packed in that singular space - circled around on the lino, standing or propped in chairs or sprawled across the floor - looked up when they entered. A whisper rippled through the crowd until the whole room, already electric with energy and anticipation, seemed to buzz with tension.

At his side, Sherlock was looking around in a mix of shock and uncertainty - though John could see as well just how hard he was trying not to show it, an affected disinterest passing over his face till it could have been boredom and disdain rather than this clinging sense of unbelonging.

But John, too, felt that sensation creep up over his skin as he looked out at their fellow competitors. Once, he'd had many friends here in famous dance halls and social bars alike. But one by one, age or injury had taken them away from him - this was a game that no longer belonged to him, and familiar faces were few and far between.

He was surprised by the hot flash of anger that swamped him. Sherlock had taken this from them, the chance to unite against the odds - things could have been so different, had everything not gone so tits up between them. What right did Sherlock have now, then, to force John to parade in humiliation before these people who in a few years wouldn't even remember his name?

John could offer him no comfort because Sherlock was _right_ - they didn't belong here, even if they might have, once.

They joined their ordained place in the lineup, the last couple scurrying in through the doors behind them, and John tried viciously to ignore the twisting, nervous sensation in his gut that was so unfamiliar to him in these spaces. He suddenly realized they hadn't even talked about their entrance. Or their exit yet, for that matter. They'd barely had time to go over a few of the basics Sherlock might have forgotten in their time apart.

"We're fucked," John murmured.

Then he started in surprise. Sherlock had reached down between them to squeeze his hand, and now was looking him square in the eye under the shadow of his hair. "Slow stride in. I'll do the pitch-back. Shoulder flip and back for the exit."

John, wordless, nodded. "Remember, for the rest," he said, and found an impossible smile trying to steal across his face, "you're a follow."

Sherlock tentatively returned it. "As my lead commands."

There. Shaky ground between them, but at least it was a foundation to stand on.

The announcer's voice crackled through the speakers just as Sherlock had fallen back into silence.

"Welcome, all, to the second annual Invitational Strictly Lindy at your one and only International Lindy Hop Competitions! How are we this morning, D.C.?"

Cheers and applause erupted from the gathered crowd. John clapped dutifully, noting the furtive, confused glances Sherlock cast about himself before beginning to do the same.

"We've had our floor tryout. How's it feel, swingers?"

The lineup made noises of affirmation.

"I've danced on better surfaces," Sherlock murmured in his ear.

"Not helping," John murmured back. Sherlock fell back into a stiff silence.

"Alright, folks," the announcer continued, oblivious to their conversation. "Here's how we're gonna do this: all my competitors are lined up in their pre-chosen, randomly selected order. In just a few minutes our band - everybody give 'em a hand - is going to kick it. Our good friend Wiggins the Wrangler here is going to let you all know when you're up, partners. And remember, after the prelims, our judges will take an hour to decide who qualifies for the finals and then we'll meet back here to find out who your Lindy Champions are. Alright? Everyone ready?"

The screaming and hollers intensified, dying out as the MC began to laugh. "An enthusiastic crowd out there today. Let's give 'em a good show. Band?"

The few opening notes began, and almost immediately the audience and dancers alike began to clap along in rhythm.

At the front of the line, the first couple marched out to the opening. Max and Annie, he thought they were called, and already his stomach was tumbling over itself in nerves. He'd been hearing things about them in the competition world, and even watching them start out now - two people, smiles honest and huge on their faces, giving the audience a few playful false-starts before they launched into the music like it was an extension of themselves rather than the other way round - he knew that, where Sherlock and he were now, this just wouldn't work. It wouldn't work _at all_.

And true to form, Sherlock was flighty as a racehorse in the gate the closer they edged to Wiggins. Just ahead of them he'd ordered the next couple on, and as they spun off Sherlock shot them a glare so heated John was almost surprised they didn't fall dead where they stood. Er. Danced.

"Calm down," John said, giving him a nudge, still clapping along and doing his best not to turn it into a dirge.

"What kind of competition is this," Sherlock said, almost not a question, as his gaze continued to sweep from the audience to the dancers, to John and back again. "It's so, so informal and loud and -"

"Fun," John said tersely. "The word you're looking for is 'fun.'"

Sherlock gave him a long, hard look. "You are not having fun," he surmised.

"Noticed?"

"Why not?"

"Boys," Wiggins cut in, tapping them both on the shoulder. "You're in."

John jerked Sherlock towards him, pushed his hands into position. "We're not talking about this now. We're dancing."

"Because not talking about things has worked _so well _for us in the past," Sherlock sniped.

John didn't even have time to be shocked before Sherlock was propelling them forwards in time with the music, throwing back his torso like he'd established earlier, dramatic and dark and foreign to everything these competitions usually stood for. He was beautiful, but here it was ridiculous. John was struck by just how much this whole _thing_ was ridiculous.

And so was the rest of their routine. Charging ahead, Sherlock apparently forgot what it was to follow. John tried as hard as he could to rein him in, but as John had feared so many weeks ago, this was where Sherlock's desperation began to take them down. His eyes were wild on John's, his steps manic. Sherlock wanted to please, wanted _perfection_.

And Lindy… Lindy wasn't about that. Lindy was expression, movement, song given voice through the rhythm of dancing feet. Passion and fervor, yes. But something was missing from Sherlock's, now, in the way every pass of their hands, every kick out, was cold and calculated.

And in their time apart, Sherlock had either forgotten what it was really like when they went swing dancing, or the rift between them had grown larger than even John had thought. He felt like he was reaching across it now as he coaxed Sherlock into a hand switch. But at the very moment John touched him Sherlock leapt away, skittering back across the divide. John blindly went along with it, if only so he could install himself in front of Sherlock, hoping his glare communicated very clearly: _what the _hell,_ Sherlock_.

For a few steps of the basic, he leaned in close, forcing Sherlock into a backbend and drawing a cheer from what before had been an audience holding its breath in uncertainty. But it was only to look him in the eyes, close as possible, and growl, "My lead," before wrenching them back up again, a sudden fury in his limbs. Fine, if Sherlock wasn't going to say a damn thing, then he'd have to rescue this, however he could.

Sherlock visibly swallowed, his eyes darting around nervously. Who _was _this man, John wondered incredulously, shaking in his arms? He wasn't the one who'd be humiliated, after all this was over he could dance back to Paris and forget all of this, while John -

But viciously John realized that he didn't have time to ask what the bloody hell was the matter with him - using their momentum, he whirled them into the handswitch he'd wanted before. He met Sherlock's gaze and they spun away from another only to meet in the middle by the bare clasp of hands. Then they did it again, and once more for good measure, faster each time.

When Sherlock's right stretched out toward his that final time coming out of the spin, John surprised him, catching it with his right as well. But John almost saw it happen, as something clicked in those eyes. _Finally_. Sherlock gave himself another half-turn and put his back to John's chest, where they began an easy tandem Charleston, a move John reckoned was safe enough to give him some time to think.

Maybe they could save this routine yet. Unlikely, but as they kicked out, John recalled their social dance on Christmas Eve, just at the moment Sherlock's hands flexed over his own like he was remembering, too. Instinctually, John dropped his hands to Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock willingly leapt upwards into the Russian.

Coming down again, Sherlock spun into his chest, out again, then back in. John met his eyes, hard, taking a large step back till their arms were braced between them. Sherlock was thinking too hard again, but he nevertheless followed as John spread his legs and helped pull Sherlock between them, Sherlock's cotton shoes allowing him to slide easily through.

Sherlock flipped himself around again, up onto his feet to the sound of shouts and whoops. He turned himself several times under John's arm before he let it fall across his shoulders and they backed out of the circle. Sherlock very nearly seemed to give out from the exhaustion as they stumbled back into the lineup, earning curious glances from the couple on their other side.

John couldn't do anything beyond shoot them a smile he hoped was some approximation of cheerful. His heart was pounding. He was stunned. Sherlock was similarly silent, the both of them staring blankly at the pair on the floor who'd sidled in after them, not really seeing anything at all.

They remained that way, in perfect silence all the way through the last dancers, the announcer reminding them that preliminary results would be posted in an hour's time, and the slow trip back to the dressing room.

Only then did John realize his hands were shaking. Only then did John look up at Sherlock, standing like a wince at the back of the room. Only then did John inhale, trying to find something - anything - he could possibly say, when Sherlock spoke, his back turned.

"Well, that could have been worse."

"'Worse?'" he said, and then repeated, more loudly, "'Worse?' Please, tell me you did not just say that."

When Sherlock remained silent, John blew out a disbelieving sigh.

"You said to tell you if I _hadn't _said it, but I did. That is exactly what I said," Sherlock protested, his voice strangely level, and John had to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep from shouting.

"You can be as much a smart arse as you want, but I'm angry, Sherlock," John said, his breath shuddering in and out of his lungs on a shaky rage, "Legitimately angry with you."

John flexed his fingers and tried to breathe in deeply, all too viciously hyper-aware that the last time they'd been standing like this, _Sherlock with his back to him at the far end of a darkened dressing room, John staring from the door, Sherlock saying to leave, to leave and never return, John going_ -

And now Sherlock was here, again _ordering_, again swanning around and _commanding_ like John and the world were peons at his beck and call, and even if he wasn't John had gone with it, done it anyway, because he was a massive idiot who still had feelings for the stupid git he'd gone and fallen in love with, a man who wouldn't return his feelings, and there wasn't a single damn thing he could do about it. Sherlock had laid him bare, stripped him of everything back in Paris.

Everything but _this_, his ability to dance in the only way that had ever made sense, in the feeling that thrummed through every bone in his body, in his veins, in his breath, something ingrained and _his_ down to the very soles of his feet.

And now Sherlock had gone and taken that, too.

"Why did you have to come back?" he said, and his voice had dropped along with all his anger, all his rage. Hoarse and exhausted, he could only stare at the nape of Sherlock's neck, will Sherlock to turn around and face him. "Why couldn't you just leave me be?"

Sherlock made a strangled noise, pitching forward like he'd only just stopped himself from turning around. "You asked me," he said, sounding half-there, "to come back to you."

John laughed, loud and bitter. "Not like this, Sherlock."

"Then how?" his voice confronted him, was every bit as demanding as the man himself, and John exploded.

"Do you have any idea what it did to me? Leaving you?" he shouted. "I love you, you _stupid _man, and you brushed that aside like it meant _nothing_."

"No -" Sherlock started, but John cut him off, stalking closer.

"Don't," he hissed, trembling in anger. "That is exactly what you did. Your 'reputation' was more important to uphold, I was just a means to an end. That is exactly what you said to me."

"No -"

"Yes! I know it is, I've been over it, every night, wondering what I could have done differently, wondering why -"

And suddenly Sherlock spun around, looming over him, something fierce and vicious and angry and sad gathering like storm clouds in his eyes. "Fine, you want to know why?"

John held his ground, glaring up into his gaze with his jaw set, and Sherlock's onslaught washed over him like something tidal, fierce and destructive. "I told you to go because my reputation was important to me, yes. And you had changed everything about me."

In the shadows cast by his height, his eyes glinted a dangerous silver. "You, John Watson, a man I might as well have picked up off the street," he spat. "Only you couldn't have just been a dancer as desperate as I was, instead you were good, better than I was, even, and more than that you were interesting. You made me want to dance, you made it so I could have looked into any one of the mirrors lining the walls of a ballet studio and I would have hardly recognized who I'd become."

Sherlock stepped impossibly closer. "But that wasn't enough for you either. It wasn't just the swing, it was you, you and your making me _want_. But I hadn't wanted before, so what would happen if, when, I went back to that? What if _you_ did? And most of all: how could I have wanted you more than the thing I'd wanted my entire professional career? Especially when to want you was to destroy all that, everything, forever - something I could not ever put to rights."

Silence. John's ears ringing with Sherlock's words and this devastating silence.

"'Why', John?" Sherlock laughed, the sound wrung from him like it was the last thing he had. "Why else?"

John had begun to tip back, the better to keep their eyes locked or because he feared, was at that moment struck by the terror, that Sherlock would pull the both of them down into this terrible black hole with the simple, terrible gravity of his words, and John would be lost. "Sherlock," he warned, his heartbeat coming fast, "what are you saying, you -"

Sherlock made an aggravated noise and threw up his arms. Then he gripped John's face in his rough hands and kissed him, hard.

It was more like being socked in the jaw, their noses crashing painfully and Sherlock's mouth mashed against his, teeth and all, but _God_, this was Sherlock kissing him, these were Sherlock's petulant, angry lips moving against his own, his fingers digging into John's scalp. Sherlock's eyelashes downcast against his cheek, so soft in contrast that when John felt them, just the barest brush, something behind his lungs began to swell like a bruise.

John came away with a wheeze, gasping, and Sherlock groaned something and tugged him back. The fit was better this time, he could actually feel Sherlock's hands when they softened, tilting his head back so Sherlock could tongue his way over John's lips, inside and choking and heat. Sherlock was kissing him like an apology, and where John's hands had come to rest on his chest he could feel the rapid pulse of his heart and the way Sherlock was trembling, trembling all over.

John drew back slowly, Sherlock stealing one more and then another, a last little nip, before the both of them stood, catching their breath while Sherlock's splayed fingers still framed his face and John listened, listened with his hands as that heartbeat continued, undying, hard and fast and desperate in its prison of ribs and flesh.

John extracted himself from the cage Sherlock's arms had wrapped around him, regarding him for one long, solitary moment. Sherlock's forefinger and thumb were still pinched tight around one of John's cuffs. Still holding on.

Quietly, John stood back, Sherlock's touch slipping away. And then John turned, and left the room.

* * *

_**Invitational Strictly Lindy Finals**_

_Max Pitruzzella & Annie Trudeau  
__Nick Williams & Laura Keat  
__Skye Humphries & Naomi Umaya  
__Todd Yanncone & Jo Hoffberg  
__John Watson & Sherlock Holmes_

**_CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL WHO COMPETED_**

**_FINALS WILL TAKE PLACE AT 12PM IN BALLROOM C_**

Sherlock blew out a breath. They'd barely placed, but there it was. His finger dropped from the list.

"That was amazing."

Sherlock turned from the scoresheet with the insistent arms that entwined themselves uncomfortably around his waist. Beth stared up at him, her brown eyes wide and sincere.

Sherlock felt a frown pass over his face, but then she continued. "You were terrible, but the fact that you placed - that's just really amazing."

"She means congratulations," Lestrade sighed, coming up behind her.

"Only slightly," she corrected, and stepped back, relinquishing him from the unexpected hug. The three of them began making their way out of the mass of people who had gathered around the postings, struggling through competitors dejected and elated alike. In the midst of all their emotion, all their joy and sorrow, Sherlock was numb, colorless as see-through glass.

"I agree with Beth," Sherlock murmured, feeling far away.

"That's a first," said Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself up to their usual level of rapport.

For while they may have placed, if John never came back. Well.

Lestrade was giving him a watchful eye, hands at his hips. "No sign?" he said beneath his breath.

"Would I keep you in the dark if there had been?"

He shrugged, crossing his arms. "I dunno, Sherlock. You have a habit of leaving us all to catch up after you go sweeping off ahead."

Sherlock turned his face away. "His things are still in the dressing room. It's like he's just vanished," he said, instead of any real reply.

A weighted silence stole over their tiny gathering, even Beth gone curiously quiet. Funny, how only a bare hour before he'd been in the same position, scanning the crowds for the same face while his blood thrummed so curiously beneath his tingling skin. Veins bursting their banks, flooded, blushing capillaries, a heart entirely wrung out - shouldn't it have all _stopped_? Or was this to go on forever, this, this...

Longing.

He'd loved John, hadn't savored it when John had loved him back. Perhaps this was a fair price.

He'd never even told him before -

Sherlock's eyelids slammed shut, and a hand came up to massage the pinched lines over the bridge of his nose. "Finals are in ten minutes," he muttered, and then suddenly he was lashing out with an angry snarl. "God, this is intolerable, how do people - why do they -" He turned to Lestrade, his arms oaring uselessly at his sides.

Lestrade coughed. He scratched the back of his neck. But at last, scuffing the floor with the heel of one boot, he spoke. "We," he began carefully, with a pointed glance in Sherlock's direction, "go into these things knowing we're going to lose. It always happens, one way or another. You go into the world alone, you leave it just the same."

"Why," Sherlock said, his head shaking in incredulity, "would anyone even -"

"Because the rest of it is worth it, you git." The next gaze he cast in Sherlock's direction was kind despite his words. "John'll see that in time, just you wait."

"Well, Mr. John's got eight minutes, now. Placing last in prelims means you're first up." Beth cut in. Her eyes darted thoughtfully between the two of them. "What if you went in and did it yourself, Sherlock?"

Lestrade and Sherlock turned, meeting her gaze. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

"It's partnered dancing, right?" At their nods, she shrugged. "Nothing in the rules says you and Mr. John have to _start_ together."

"They'd have to finish together, though," Lestrade protested. "If John never comes back -"

"But he will!" she said, her words gaining speed as some excited energy began to hum about her. "These televisions are everywhere. He can't have left the hall completely if his wallet and passport are still in the dressing room. He's probably just gone out to think, and once he sees you, once he knows you're still going to do this for him because you love him," she said dramatically, savoring the images, "then he'll come running back in. It'll be _brilliant_."

It was all so romantic, a child's notions of fairytale endings and happily-ever-afters. Lestrade, looking similarly dour, went into a crouch beside her. Then, gently, he said, "Beth, it's a good idea, but just think about it. If John doesn't come back - if, mind you - then they could get into a lot of trouble."

"Then at least he'd have tried," she said heatedly, but she was no longer looking at her father. Her eyes were boring into Sherlock's. It was curious, watching their transformation from unyielding flint to something earnest, soft. "_Believe _me, this will work."

It wasn't something as simple as belief she was asking for, the belief she'd given him from almost the very moment he'd walked into Lestrade's office. But it felt like it, felt simple enough to draw his spine up, all the while still looking at her. Felt simple to say, "Yes," and watch a smile overtake her face, blossoming with pride and gratitude.

"You and Beth," he said, directing to Lestrade. "Search for him." He hesitated, then added, "Please."

Sherlock kept the image of their determined faces in his mind as he set off alone down the hall, weaving in and out of people as he went, and came to the set of great double doors. He pushed inside.

The audience was settling in with anticipation, and the lineup of finalists was just beginning to form at the far end, curved in a gentle semi-circle now all the smaller for the competition that had been weeded out in the last round. He still felt warm, loose from their dancing earlier, but it was nevertheless a relief to stretch. He allowed his spine to curve forward, sweeping his hands along the ground, gripping his ankles and feeling the stretch all through the line of his back. He rose, lifted on his toes and reached up above his head.

Despite everything, the pulse in his ears, though loud, was steady. Sherlock moved in time with its constant beating, feeling the world fall away as he paced through his stretches. Away went the crowd, the noise, the floor and even his body. Sherlock, mere conduit for his art.

In his mind palace once more - a bare, crumbling thing amidst the rubble but there and present, _at last_ - he took center stage.

"Your Lindy Finalists," boomed the announcer, and it was all he had to say before the crowd went wild, ready for the closing event of the conference. Sherlock watched, oddly at peace.

"These folks need no introduction, so just one more thing; D.C. - are you ready to swing?"

His eyes followed the MC as he walked over to the band, counting them off beneath the roar of the fans. It began with a solo guitar, a simple, jazzy strum. _It begins with the music_. Then more, in rhythm, and the crowd eagerly began to clap along once more, whooping and shouting for their favorites all the while.

At the touch of Wiggins' hand on his shoulder, Sherlock began strutting forward. Alone.

_This is how we begin_.

His eyes closed, he ignored the air of uncertainty that seemed to creep through the hall at the sight of Sherlock like a soloist on a classical stage. Ignored insidious thoughts like _this style does not belong to you_, and _you do not belong here_.

Because they were utterly false: John belonged here, and Sherlock unequivocally belonged with John.

Fast and light, John had said. Brave.

He started with the basic: rock back on one heel, step forward, double kick. Tension still hummed with the vibration of the guitar strings, the same pattern repeated. Sherlock grew bolder. Now his leg brushed in a semicircle to his side in a sweep, turning into a swoop as he kicked out the next time around, bringing his knee up and back to land with a firmly clop on the ground. A whisper of excitement stole over the crowd: this was building, but to what, and where was his partner -

Two more swoops and then the band chose to erupt in that moment with brass. A trumpet blared, and Sherlock soared with it. He leapt into the air in a turn, spinning rapidly and unfolding into a split on the way down.

And as he drew himself up, he saw John.

John, tossing off his coat at the far end of the hall, pushing into a run , gathering speed until the moment he hit the edge of the circle. Then without stopping he folded to his knees, letting the slide carry him across the floor until he slowed to a stop almost exactly in front of Sherlock, head thrown back, arms spread wide.

That smile spread even wider, his heart open and widest of all.

"John," Sherlock breathed, undone.

There was no time, no time at all. And Sherlock was setting his hands on John's shoulders and flipping himself easily over John's head, the two of them now back to back and able to help push one another to standing. But the touch John used to spin him around, Sherlock twirling on one foot until they were able to kick out in their perfectly attuned tandem Charleston, was soft. Forgiving.

The crowd had fallen back in love with them the moment John soared into the circle in his stunning slide, and Sherlock could hear the cheers building. It was instinctive, this, the way John's weight nudging at his hip said _turn_; it was natural to sense _dip_ in the glide of John's fingers over his flank. Easier still to hear that other thing John was saying, in every moment of between when black-blue eyes seared into his own.

They went into the pretzel, a complicated switch of arms and position that left Sherlock, for a moment, locked in the circle John's arms with his own wrapped in front of him, holding himself there. Sherlock grinned tentatively and John returned it like a second sun. Then Sherlock spun out and away, flaring wide and bright.

Connected only by their hands, they began the wide, synchronized cross-kicks. One foot struck the floor before kicking back up, landing down hard as the other foot went into the same motion. All the while the grounded foot was shifting side to side in time with the rhythm. Furiously fast, they used the motion to turn into one another. Their hands clasped and they turned beneath them, ending in a form stop with their hands linked in a line between their backs. Then just as quickly they kicked out again, turning themselves in a circle.

The line of John's back at his own was rippling with the movement, and Sherlock had just enough time to read the powerful flex before he spun out of it. He brought himself back to John's side with a little hop, slinging an arm around and his shoulders and tucking his knees up. Understanding, John tossed him forward and around. Sherlock landed beside him and jumped back up to the other hip, now, in the same position as before.

John cradled him down in a diagonal across his body, a hand on his hip. Sherlock's arm flung itself out to grip John's ankle with their other hands clasped together, as his legs tipped across John's back, one pointed straight and the other tucked back in.

Hanging only inches from the floor, he looked up and met John's eyes, trailed his gaze over the satisfied smile.

"Yes?" Sherlock breathed, hardly daring.

John's smile blazed into giddy laughter. "Yes," he said, and Sherlock's other leg unfolded as John shouldered him, completely flipping Sherlock over his back.

He crouched with Sherlock's landing, and the both of them sprung back from the circle, arms waved wide in a challenge to the dancers just entering the ring.

Little more than 30 seconds on the floor. Sherlock wanted to dance with John for the rest of his life.

Now that it was over, and his thundering heart was doing its best to return to anything resembling a steady rhythm, he couldn't even risk looking to John at his side. John could have been trying to save his career, could have just wanted to dance. Sherlock understood, even when he knew: they hadn't been dancing like strangers. But it didn't mean anything, not necessarily, it didn't -

Fingers, stout but strong, were threading through his own.

His breath caught.

In silence, they watched the rest of the dancers complete their rounds.

"Ends with a social dance," John murmured, when the last couple went on, the first real words he'd spoken since he'd come running back into that dance hall.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. The crowd knew it, too; cheers were gathering, people were coming to their feet, the band was getting more and more frantic.

"I'm thinking that spot there, by the column."

"I'm thinking London," Sherlock blurted. "The flat above Mrs. Hudson's old studio."

John's eyes finally moved away from the dancers to rest on him. Quiet. Expectant.

"I quit the Paris Opera," Sherlock confessed, his words spilling over themselves in a rush, too fast and too desperate. "A few years ago I refused an offer from the Royal Opera Ballet in London. They were still willing to take me, when I - when I explained."

"Sherlock," John said, voice almost chiding. "What about France? Isn't that everything you -"

"Not anymore," Sherlock cut in, his honesty painfully sharp as it lingered on his tongue. He was silent for a few seconds, and then on a quick inhale he said, "The Royal's better than the National. My hours are better, more free time for, um. Other things. And it's still close. Closer than Paris, anyway," he said with a weak smile.

"Closer to me," John clarified, still so strangely, terrifyingly unreadable.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes."

The last dancers were falling back into line.

"Uh oh," came the voice over the microphone as the band went quiet, bridging into a piano solo over that same, insistent rhythm of twanging bass and drums. "What happens now?"

As one, the line of dancers began to walk forward in time. Some playfully fussed with their partner's clothing, their swing personas squabbling even as they threw coy smiles to one another, each and every person in that dance hall knowing without question what was to happen in just a few swift moments.

John and Sherlock walked to the spot John had pointed out. And then, with quiet, familiar hands, John turned Sherlock to face him. He looped his arms around Sherlock's waist, leaning close.

"What," Sherlock said, wondering if John could feel his heart where their chests were pressed together, "happens now?"

John smirked, but it fanned out into something much more quiet, much more soft where it perched in the lines of his face. "We go slow," he said. "I don't… I'm still -"

"I know," Sherlock agreed, tipping his face down. And then, because he couldn't take it any longer, he asked, "But we still try?"

The music was gathering, the people roiling with energy - all of it was drawing in for the explosion. Sherlock looked to him desperately. Would they flare bright for their finish? Were they a supernova or the feeble light that burned from stars long dead, was this the collapse at the core or something more -

Brazen joy shone from John's upturned face. "Yes," he said, just as the band cried out and the crowd roared, "A-one two three four!"

And then they were dancing, the couples all throwing out their best moves in a last bid for the win.

Sherlock had no idea what they did. Just that John's hands were fast in his own, their bodies attuned and aligned, and John's smile never once left his face. He felt like he was disappearing, just energy and light, John his one tether back to the earth.

And sure enough John was the one to bring him back in the end, when all was said and done. Pulling him in with gentle squeezes of hands and a caress of open palm against his cheek.

Like someone spinning out alone out onto the dance floor, onto to be guided in by a partner's careful hands. Guided home.

In the moments that followed they settled in to wait for the results. But, he thought, forgiving himself the sentimentality - because these were John's hands moving through his hair like a gift, this was his ability to reach out and feel John's laughter rumbling in his chest, to feel him not shrink away but come closer and closer still - they had really already won.

"D.C., are you ready to find out who your International Lindy Hop Champions are?"

The room shook with sound.

John's hand in his own. He squeezed, and John squeezed back.

* * *

_Saturday, January 30th_

* * *

In the quiet place just before dawn, Sherlock rapped softly on John's hotel room door.

He heard shuffling, the sounds of fabric and sleepy feet, and then the door cracked open. John's bleary face roved into view, and the annoyance that might have been there at being woken so early dissolved into a blissful grin. Dissolved, dissolved completely and utterly, the moment his eyes fell upon Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice sleep-rough and deep but unmistakably pleased.

Sherlock smiled around the warmth blooming in his chest. "Did I wake you?"

"You know you did." But the eyes John raised to him were playful and soft. "S'alright."

Sherlock's grin widened. He inclined his head to the far end of the hallway, raising his eyebrows like a question. "Get dressed. Something you can move in."

Five minutes later, the both of them were stepping out onto the hotel roof. Light was only just skating along the edge of the horizon, as if the sun were flirting with the idea of rising, beginning a new day. Here, now, it was almost plausible that it might decide not to after all - just turn over, go back to sleep, here in the blue.

At his side, John had apparently finished admiring the city skyline where it was thrown against the great disc of sky above and earth below, and was now glaring at him as he shivered in the wind, teeth chattering. "We're going to catch pneumonia, you berk. What are we doing up here?"

Ah, yes. Sherlock's heart began to pound just a bit faster. The game, he thought strangely, was afoot.

"I have… a gift for you," he decided slowly.

"Oh?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the suggestion in John's tone. "What, almost 500 pounds for a winner's purse wasn't enough?"

"What does it feel like, when we're up here?" Sherlock asked instead, as he did so slowly taking hold of John's hands and walking backwards, pulling John along with him.

John tilted his head, growing serious, a thousand questions flashing through his eyes. But it was an answer he finally gave to Sherlock. "Like we're alone. I mean, we _are_, but not just now, in this moment," he said, puzzling gradually through the words until Sherlock had brought them to a stop in the center of the roof. He looked up, eyes a deeper, more unfathomable blue than that of the sky. "It's like we're the only ones who exist."

Sherlock had withdrawn two small ipods from his pocket. He took the earbuds of one and pushed them into his ears. Then he held up the other set in a Y before John's face and smiled. "Just the two of us," he said, bestowing them around John like a crown, "against the rest of the world." John's hands came up, helping him settle the earbuds comfortably in John's ears.

His hands lingered on the sensitive skin of Sherlock's wrists, just as his eyes, still questioning, strayed between his eyes. Sherlock was close enough to watch his pupils focus, unfocus, dilate once more. Gently, Sherlock drew his hands down, now cupping the two ipods together. He looked back up from beneath his eyelashes to capture John's gaze and pressed the little triangular play buttons at the same time.

Music began, a lilting cascade of piano melody. He pressed one ipod into John's pocket, slipping the other back into his own. Comprehension began to dawn across John's face, and Sherlock smiled.

He turned John around, slipped his chest up against the curve of John's spine. Before the words he knew were coming began, he put his lips to John's ear, taking a moment to squeeze his arms around the solid warmth of John's chest. "It occurred to me that if we danced to music with words, we might finally solve our dilemma."

"I don't know, I think we're finally getting pretty good at the whole speaking thing," John murmured, sinking back into his hold, allowing his arms to come up and clasp Sherlock's hands at his chest.

"John," Sherlock replied, scraping his teeth over the shell of John's ear, "Shut up."

John chuckled, the sound fading into silence as the singer's voice broke from the music.

For the first few lines, they stayed there, swaying gently from side to side, wrapped in their arms, the music only they could hear. And then Sherlock slowly brought their arms out to their sides, spread like wings with the tips of Sherlock's fingers curving around the edge of John's hands.

With the natural rhythm he bent his knees, sweeping first one arm in to cross over John's chest, then the other like an X against it before he laid them down again, their hands hanging loosely at their sides. John, allowing him, trusting him to lead. He noted, from the very edge of his vision, that John's eyes were closed, his face wiped clean.

Together their arms went forward, stretched out in front of their bodies before Sherlock, sliding his hands around to cup the base of John's elbows, pulled them back in. John's fists had curled naturally, like ownership, something held tight. He couldn't resist, washed in the warmth of being here, their bodies tucked close, he feathered a kiss in John's nape, his lips sliding down over his shoulder.

And then he danced.

His hands still braced on John's elbows, he took a step back. Easily he fluted one leg up behind him, pointed toward the sky above in a flawess line. Then he twisted, turned, bringing it down at the same time as he pressed his back to John. He threw his arm before him in an arc, out from himself, his whole body pulling itself upward onto his toes in aching sympathy for the air - something that had escaped. Come to life, sweet as breath.

Slowly, as if in agony or ecstasy, he bent his knees: with John a steady support as his back, he sunk along the column of John's body, pushing himself down and back up again at the same even pace. He savored the sensation of John's skin, the fine hairs, the goosebumps, as they reached for his own. Savored the words and their truth.

Behind him, John's arms went wide, the same surrender as before. Sherlock gripped them tight, a base as he leaned to one side, leg at an _attitude_ before him, pausing in the held position before he switched to the other.

And then John, sensing-knowing-feeling, pitched forward, one knee braced beneath him: Sherlock rolled easily over his back, legs pointed precisely, and came to stand on John's other side.

_I love you_, came the words, as Sherlock turned in, moved to turn John in to face him and found John had already instinctively rotated in, his eyes still shut tight.

Sherlock tipped their foreheads together with the barest trailing brush of his fingertips, where they stood for a moment just breathing together. Breathing as one.

He didn't know if John even realized that he was scattering touches over his body: here, his fingers flaring over Sherlock's biceps, a caress of his waist, John's open hand bracketing his jaw. Reassurances or blessing, it didn't matter. They were each in kind returned.

_I love you, love you._

Eventually Sherlock's foot rounded out, _rond de jambe_ as he turned himself, side by side with John, his right arm still overlapping with John's left beside him. Their hands clasped, Sherlock's cupped in the constant circle of John's.

Sherlock bloomed into motion. With John's elbow as lever, John's other arm stretched out beside him for balance, Sherlock lowered himself at a slant. John helped him rise again, his supple knees unbending.

And then John was turning, Sherlock too, and their hold was changing. John's grip went firm on both forearms, fingers wrapping around him tightly, and they raised a vertical circle between them. One foot planted firmly on the ground, Sherlock teased the other higher up his leg. His toes brushed along his own calf, the back of his knee, his thigh, until at last Sherlock unbent it and it pointed up seamlessly for the sky once more. It swung back down like a pendulum, a second counted before the chain they'd created at the top of the circle broke. Their arms flared, Sherlock's raised leg following its downward path in sweet parallel motion.

Sherlock's momentum carried him into John was he rounded out the circle, and for John's swinging arms to ring themselves around Sherlock's waist was only natural. From there it was easy for John to lower him, cradled in against his arm as Sherlock trusted John to carry him down, down and pull him up again to safety.

His eye closed with the delicious swoop of John bringing him back to a stand, and as he tipped to the other side to do it again he could feel it, the sighing hum of John's quiet, wondrous laughter as he supported him. The hand he'd tossed back above his head trailed in a circle along the concrete roof, lifted, found itself placed flat again against John's chest.

There. Against the shaking laughter, a counter-rhythm, in the constant drum of his heart. Almost one in their rhythms.

John brought him up quickly, breathlessly, so that Sherlock was still spinning around as he came out of it. And with the high, flitting notes, he left the circle of John's embrace. He danced away, a leaping midair turn with one foot tucked beneath him, another pointed straight back to John as he hung suspended. He touched back down, propelled himself into a straight-legged hop with his arms extended, and with his last liftoff spun around in the air, landing on one foot to continue the spin. His other leg at an angle for support behind him, he came to a stop, lifting his hand to John.

John stalled, something deliberately playful in his extension, his _plié_ to _relevé_, the way it faded into the joyful bounds of a _petit allegro_. But with the next line he ignited, all those turns in solitude crossing the space as he lengthened them, extended the same jumps and skips into leaps that carried him all the way over to where Sherlock was.

He slipped around him, forearm against the small of Sherlock's back, and with his other hand reaching around he lifted Sherlock. He walked them forwards on quick steps, Sherlock holding one leg out before him so that when John brought him back to earth the both of them were able to fold over it, do a half turn as John altered his grip every so slightly, and push off into a new lift. John's hands on his thighs were steady, Sherlock's spine arced like sail or masthead as they set out into the wind, his arms posed for the flight John gave them.

Sherlock's hand slipped from John's arm he skipped out on the descent, turned around, found himself at John's other side just as John thrust him up into a shoulder sit. Here he could see the world stretching away before them to every horizon. It was, he thought, a world entirely theirs.

When Sherlock slipped back to earth, he broke away from John, turning until he was a few paces apart. John caught his eye, flashed him a smile. Together, they nodded.

Watching one another from the corners of their eyes, they thrust themselves into a spin, flaring out into a promenade. In tandem motion, as two separate entities, they performed the same movements. An extension of the left leg, falling down into a scoop upwards, arms crossed while the other leg kicked out behind. Drawing it out, like slow motion, before with a quick breaths between them they curled down to one side and shot up again like springs. At a vertical they hesitated, suspended just before gravity brought them down, though with it they allowed their legs to kick out freely in the easy circle around of it.

The strings had grown insistent, urging. The same repeated pattern, over and over again, and just like Sherlock's audition from so many weeks ago it was building to a greater moment, the hesitation just before the leap.

At the last second, Sherlock peeled out of the tandem spin he'd begun with John and swooped up beside him, just as John came out of his own spin. The smile that flared across his face at seeing Sherlock there, close and present, wasn't anything Sherlock thought he deserved, certainly nothing it understood - but it made his heart thrum in time with the drums that erupted just as John carried him up into the air, twirling him around with Sherlock's leg in _arabesque_, the other folded beneath him until the very moment he met the rooftop once more.

Unexpectedly, John caught that leg around the thigh, a secure hold. Sherlock had time only to stiffen it, finding his balance as John twirled him through the air again. Below him, as he fell past once again, he saw John's mouth spread wide in a picture of laughter and perfect happiness.

It was infectious. He found himself grinning, grinning of all things while they did ballet. But it wasn't just ballet - no, this was modern, swing, waltz and jazz and ballroom all at once as Sherlock scoured forward on graceful legs, John hoisting him up, letting him fall into a dip behind him. Sherlock's legs kicking through the air as John skipped through a turn, joy lighting his face with the utter melodiousness of it.

This wasn't any one dance any longer, no more than they were any two separate people.

It had ceased to be dance at all. It was simply them.

The only way they were meant to be.

Sherlock, down on his knees, allowed himself to lounge flat onto his back, a lazy smile curling his lips as he stretched his arms high above his head, feeling the frozen touch of stones and pockmarked concrete and not caring, not caring in the slightest.

John sidestepped back and forth over the length of Sherlock's torso, pivoting himself on Sherlock's folded knees and using them as a brace for when he, too, with the unwinding of the strings, lay on his back, their shins pressed together and their arms spread wide.

Silence. Rest.

And then again: music.

As one, they curled upwards from the abdomen, clasping hands in the middle. Sherlock feinted back again, causing John to lose his hold and subsequently roll his eyes at what he no doubt would call Sherlock's dramatics. But with the music growing stronger they sat up again. One arm clasped, then the other, reaching one over the other to pull themselves to their feet, to a crouch, and finally to standing.

Mere inches away, Sherlock smiled.

And then Sherlock leapt away with the buildup, a strict series of ballet moves. This was the _déboulé _into the poised extension held above his head, the _fouetté_ into the leaping turn. Triumphant, it was an exaltation, celebration, a confession dying to be poured into the world:_ there's a strange love inside, _revealed the words._ It's getting louder, louder, louder, louder…_

And John, John was an answer. As Sherlock turned back to him - a _reverence_, almost, with his hands extended, one knee bent, the other leg straight behind him - John sang into motion. He was all swing, the moves he'd done that one day long, long ago, when he'd first shown Sherlock what it meant to do this and do it right.

Feet wild beneath him, an explosion of a spin that fell into John, leaning back with his arm on the ground, before launching up into the bravest of leaps. John spun out of it, sinking down onto one knee with his arms spread wide behind him, bared of everything, and Sherlock loved him fiercely. _There's a danger I can't hide, it's who I am, it's who I am, it's who I am, it's who I am -_

Sherlock was guiding John to his feet with the rising of his open palms. The both of them, staring wondrously into the faces of one another, the dance forgotten as they came to standing.

_I'm in love, _the singer confessed, unashamed and so, so alive._ I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love._

Sherlock's hands swept upwards, slow and monumental, to clasp John around his neck like something utterly, unfathomably precious. He tilted John's face back, swept the pads of his thumbs beneath John's eyes. John smiled, brighter, better than a sunrise - and this was their new beginning.

The words washed over them, devastatingly, beautifully true, all the more beautiful for being unnecessary as Sherlock finally leaned in, as John leaned up, and they met in the middle, Sherlock feeling like his heart would burst and all the while knowing from the upturned lips against his face that John felt just the same.

They kissed, there on the rooftop, to the music only they had ever been able to hear.

Dawn broke over the water to the east, slanted across the rooftops of the sleeping city. Drowned them in light.

* * *

**NOTES:** Next week there will be an epilogue, and we'll officially say goodbye then, but this is indeed the final chapter and I can't thank you enough, reader, for sticking around for this long.

_Some additional notes for this chapter in particular_:

1. The pub where John and Sherlock meet does exist, and it is just as delicious as John says. It's the chain restaurant _Elephant & Castle_ on Pennsylvania Avenue if you ever find yourself in D.C.  
2. A great deal of liberties were taken with the swing dance competition for the purposes of fiction. Invitationals typically do not have preliminary rounds, and the ILHC tends to happen over a weekend - meaning the final dance wouldn't happen at noon on a Friday but midnight on Saturday or Sunday. Not to mention a weekend in August rather than January!  
3. That said, there is some fact to it, promise. All the people John and Sherlock compete against were taken from the ILHC winner's archive. A good deal of the MC's dialogue is also ripped directly from youtube videos of the competition (which are, by the way, enormously fun to watch!)  
4. The idea of a rooftop dance was stolen from the New York Ballet's 'New Beginnings' video remembrance of 9/11. It is stunningly beautiful, and I highly recommend watching it, keeping in mind the very poignant meaning behind it as you do.  
5. The song Sherlock and John dance to in their rooftop dance is 'Two Men in Love,' by The Irrepressibles, which I also highly recommend listening to as it's gorgeously suited to pas de deux and to our boys as well.

And that should be it! Barring the notes below, we say goodbye until next week. Thank you so much!

* * *

_**Capezio, Bloch** - two of several popular brands of dance attire_

_**floor tryout** - a scheduled time before a competition in which competitors test out the space they'll be dancing on, getting themselves used to the conditions (as they may vary from surface to surface)_

_**wrangler** - assists during competitions by letting dancers know when their turn has arrived_

_**sweep; swoop** - two similar dance moves related to the charleston. they vary the basic (three-count rock step) with either a semicircle on the final step in the former or a lift of the knee going backwards in the latter._

_**pretzel** - a relatively simple but complicated-looking change of position involving arms that cross into and out of the 'sweetheart' hold described_

_**relevé** - rising from any position to balance with the heels off the floor_

_**petit allegro** - a set of small but quick and lively jumps_

_**déboulés** - a sequence of half-turns from one leg to another with the legs held straight_

_**reverence** - an act consisting of bows and curtsies during which the dancer pays respect to the teacher, accompanist, audience, and/or fellow performers. It is often performed at the end of a class or dance._


End file.
